Populazzi

Chapter Thirty-Two



My dad and I had an interesting relationship. I had last seen him a year ago, and I had made him cry. We'd met on neutral territory: a Wendy's. He'd asked me to meet him at his house, but ever since I'd turned thirteen and he boycotted my bat mitzvah because I wouldn't let the Bar Wench get called up for an Aliyah, I had refused to set foot on his property.

I didn't hug my dad when I saw him last. I didn't even smile, which in my pre-Nate-training days was an effort for me. I simply sat across from him, perfectly straight-faced, dipping my fries in my Frosty and regaling him with every story I remembered from my childhood in which he'd let me down. All those times when I was three, four, five years old, totally in love with my daddy and waiting for him to pick me up for a scheduled visit. And waiting. And waiting. And waiting. Until he'd finally cancel.

I reminded him of my school plays in fourth and fifth grade. He'd come—but he'd been on the phone the whole time, bouncing in and out of the theater.

I reminded him of the times he had picked me up for our father-daughter visits only to run up to his computer the minute we got to his house, leaving me with the Bar Wench, who expected me to help her take care of her whiny sons.

I showed absolutely no emotion as I dragged him through the muck of Memory Lane, and I made him cry. I loved that I made him cry. It made me feel accomplished, powerful, and strong. It made me feel right.

Given that our last two annual visits had played out that way and given my vow never to set foot in his house, it was more than a touch hypocritical of me to try to have a party there. Then again, it fit perfectly with my new philosophy to keep my emotions at bay and do whatever was necessary to get what I wanted.

I described Dad's house to Trista. She thought it sounded perfect, but of course she knew I had to lay some groundwork before I asked to throw a party there. She suggested I use the two-week spring break to reconnect with him, then pop the party thing on him afterward. She also recommended I show her Dad's house so she could see if it was "magnetic" enough. I was pretty sure it was, but Trista's taste was dead-on, so I agreed. I called him at his office to make an appointment.

"Leonard Engineering," his secretary answered.

"Um, hi. Is Lenny there?" I asked.

Yes, my dad's name really is Leonard Leonard. I long suspected that this was the actual source of all his problems, and he might have been a far better husband, father, and person if his parents hadn't been so cruel.

"May I ask who's calling?" the secretary asked.

"Sure. It's his daughter, Cara."

"His ... daughter?" She was clearly unaware that Leonard Leonard even had a daughter. Nice.

"Just a minute," she said. "I'll see what I can do."

To his credit, my dad picked up the phone right away and managed to sound like he was happy to hear from me.

"Cara! Hey! To what do I owe the pleasure?"

I sifted through his tone for snarkiness but found none, so I gave him the story Trista had worked out for me. It sounded disingenuous to me, but she knew what people needed to hear, so I went with it. I said now that I was almost a senior, I'd been thinking a lot about what came next—college, probably moving away—and before it happened I wanted to try to make things better between us.

Dad got weepy. I didn't feel any sense of accomplishment about it this time, just awe that Trista's skills were so well honed. Dad assumed I'd want to meet on neutral ground, but I said no, the house was fine.

"Even if Lisa and the boys will be there?" he asked.

I choked back gagging noises and painted a smile on my face, even though I was on the phone. "Sure! I'd love to see them."

A couple days later, on the first day of spring break, Trista and I drove to my dad's house. She seemed pleased when we pulled into his driveway. "Very nice. This could work for you."

The house was nowhere near as vast as Trista's, but it was big and it was impressive. Dad and Lisa had worked with an architect to design it from the ground up, so it was a modern marvel of skylights, angles, and gables. Trista led the way to the front door and rang the bell.

I knew I was doing this for a greater purpose, but I still felt very weird being there. I was glad Trista was with me—she'd make it easier. I had a feeling I could hang back and let her do all the talking and everything would be perfect.

Dad opened the door and seemed shocked to find a supermodel on his doorstep when he'd been expecting his daughter.

"Hi," Trista said.

"Well, hello," Dad replied, and I saw a flirtatious twinkle in his eye that made me nauseous. I leaned in close to Trista.

"Hey, Dad! Sorry, I should have told you I was bringing my friend."

"Oh!" He quickly rearranged his body language from provocative to paternal, then gave me a hug. He turned to Trista. "You must be Claudia, right?"

I doubled over laughing. Both Dad and Trista looked at me like I was a mental patient, but I couldn't help it. Eventually I pulled myself together.

"Sorry. No. This is Trista Camello. From my new school, Chrysella. Trista, this is my dad."

"A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Leonard," she said.

"Call me Lenny."

I waited for it.

Nothing. Trista didn't even flinch. Was she just being polite, or had she really not caught the Leonard Leonard thing?

"Can I get you girls something?" my dad asked. "A soda maybe? A snack?"

"A little water would be great, thanks," Trista said, and as we followed Dad into the kitchen, she leaned close to my ear. "Your dad's cute," she whispered.

"Ew. Stop. He is not."

Though I guess he was, in a gross-even-if-I-never-see-him-he's-still-my-dad-so-shut-up kind of way. I mean, he was forty-two, which wasn't that old, and he was in good shape. I got my curls from him, though he wore them close-cropped and darker. And I supposed it was attractive that he usually had a big smile on his face. You know, when I wasn't making him cry. But still ... his name was Leonard Leonard. And he was my dad.

"Where are Lisa and the boys?" I asked as if I cared.

"They went out. Spring break—Lisa took them to the park."

That's what he said, but the obvious truth was that the Bar Wench had jumped ship so she wouldn't have to face me. Given that I had zero desire to see her, it made no sense that I'd feel hurt by this—but I kind of did.

Trista had finished her water now and looked around the kitchen. "Your house is beautiful," she told my dad. "Is it true you and Lisa designed it yourselves?"

Dad looked surprised—and a little proud?—that I had clearly shared this information with Trista. "Yeah, we did. A long time ago, but ... hey, would you like a tour?"

"I'd love one," Trista said.

Dad's tour didn't hold any surprises for me, but for Trista I could see it was a revelation. She especially loved the basement. It was fully finished and carpeted, and the bulk of it was split into two large rooms. The first held a pool table, large-screen TV, and giant sectional couch. From there you could traipse down two steps to the other room: a fully functioning pub, complete with bar, jukebox, fireplace, dance floor, wine cellar, and several small tables. The rest of the basement held two bathrooms, plus several little nooks outfitted with couches and other intimate seating arrangements.

"Magnetic?" I asked her.

" Very magnetic. This is exactly what you need."

So now I had my mission. I had to spend enough quality time with Dad that I could ask to host a party at his house— without the presence of him, the Bar Wench, or their kids.

And without telling Karl or Mom what I was doing. They would freak out.

I ended up making three lunch dates with Dad during spring break. Lunches were the best times to catch him. He was a workaholic, but he always needed to eat.

Lunches were best for me, too, since I was half-grounded. Mom and Karl had received my latest report card, and the news was not good: Bs and Cs. They immediately cut off my weekends at The Hang and demanded I be home for dinner each night. I tried to make a case that the punishment should start after spring break since it's not as if I had any schoolwork to do, but they warned me I was treading on thin ice. Unless I wanted my sentence to grow exponentially worse, I'd stop fighting them about it. Hence, lunches with Dad.

I worried at first that I wouldn't have anything to say to him. It's not like we had a ton in common. He didn't read, we didn't know the same people, and we didn't hang out at the same places. But Dad loved being social, and he adored being the life of the party. So as long as I made every one of our lunches a party, it was a huge success. I always brought along at least three of the Populazzi, and for the last lunch of the break, I brought the whole gang.

Dad was thrilled to fete us with a hugely decadent lunch at his favorite steak place. He even ordered drinks for all of us, promising to pay for cabs both to take us home and to help us fetch our cars when we sobered up. He talked baseball with the guys, he laughed with the girls ... The only bad part of the whole meal was when Ree-Ree got up to go to the ladies' room. She stopped at my chair to whisper in my ear, "Gemma and I made a bet to see which of us can bed your dad."

"Ew! No!" I shouted. Everyone looked at me as Ree- Ree waved and took off, leaving me to try to explain my outburst, which of course I couldn't do. Though the more I thought about it, the more I figured I'd have a better relationship with my dad if either Gemma or Ree-Ree were my stepmother instead of the Bar Wench.

But then I'd have to see my dad's name on the List. And whichever one got him would spill about everything they were doing in bed.

Ew. So ew.

As lunch came to an end, Dad looked at me from across the table. His eyes were a little misty, and I couldn't tell if that was from emotion or the two Crown Royals on the rocks he'd had with his steak and potato.

"Cair, baby," he said, "I don't know what triggered it, but I'm glad you came back to me."

Suddenly my head got very crowded. The daddy-adoring four-year-old me melted and wanted to race into his arms for a huge hug and a cathartic cry. The angry me wanted to spit in his face for having the gall to think a few laughs and expensive meals made up for an entire childhood of disappointments. Mom and Karl were in my head, too, warning me not to believe a word Dad said. "I'm the one who was there for you!" in-my-head-Karl screamed. "Sperm Donor! Sperm Donor!" screeched in-my-head-Mom. "Ask him about the party!" hissed in-my-head-Trista.

"Ow!" I winced. Someone had kicked me in the shin. It was Trista, and her hiss hadn't been in my head at all. She nodded toward Dad—now was the time.

"So, Dad," I began, diving into yet another script Trista had written for me, "I wonder if I could ask you a favor..."

"Anything, baby. Anything."

"Wow, okay, um ... we were all talking," I said, "and we really wanted to have a spring party, but we couldn't figure out a good location..."

I was already off-script. I was hemming and hawing and hedging and trying to get back to that No Emotion place in my head, but it was hard. I was riddled with emotion. Guilt that I was being nice to Dad behind Karl's and Mom's backs. Guilt that I was using Dad for his house. Anger that I was feeling guilty when Dad deserved for me to use him. I could barely get my tongue around it all to speak.

"What, you want to use the house?" Dad asked.

I scanned his voice for indignation. There didn't seem to be any. In fact, he seemed to be more offering than asking.

"Um ... yeah. I mean, if we can..."

"We'd love to!" Trista said. "Thanks so much, Lenny!"

"No problem," he said. "Just let me know when so I can make sure Lise and I don't already have it booked."

"We'll work around you, of course!" Trista said. "A Saturday night would be best. Whatever one's good for you."

Dad pulled out his phone and tapped a quick note. "Done. Just e-mailed Lisa." He looked at me. "I'll call and let you know what she says."





Dad wasn't the one who called me. Lisa called me.

"This is not your house," she said. "Do not think this is ever going to happen again."

That's what she said. What I heard was that I was having a party at the house!

"Got it. So what day would be best for you?"

"April twenty-fourth."

I had already hung up and was about to call Trista when I realized the horror of that date. It was the day before my lunch with Dean Jaffe of Northwestern. The interview had always been a huge deal, but ever since my less-than-stellar report card, Karl had been drilling into my head that it now meant everything. Only the strongest recommendation from the dean, plus an immediate upswing in my GPA, could secure my place at the one college that held the key to my future. There was no possible way Karl was going to let me out of the house the night before. I wouldn't be surprised if he had that whole Saturday mapped out with a full slate of prep sessions followed by an early bedtime.

I briefly considered asking Lisa for an alternate party date, but there was no way. She'd see a request like that as the perfect out. I had to just go with it and trust that I'd find a way around the Karl issue when the time came.

Meanwhile, Trista and I had planning to do. We'd agreed that making the party a successful transition of power required finesse. Everyone, including the Populazzi, had to know that I was the one putting it together. Yet to make it magnetic enough, Trista had to secretly call the shots.

Her first priority was my guest list. It was a work in progress. She e-mailed me the first draft while we talked on the phone and played with it over the next couple days until she was satisfied.

There were lots of people on the list I didn't know, but I wasn't surprised by most of her picks. Naturally, I'd invite the Populazzi from every class, including the seniors. All the upper-level Cubby Crews who had made the cut for Eddie's party were invited, though Kristie's now-ex-boyfriend Eric was not. The DangerZones were in, with the notable exceptions of Nate Wetherill and his now-DangerZone girlfriend, Dinah. Even some college kids were on Trista's list, mostly recent Chrysella alums who'd been Populazzi. Some Populazzi from nearby schools made the cut, too. The Pennsbrook Populazzi, thankfully, were too far away to be on Trista's radar.

Everyone on the list would jump at a chance to come to a Trista Camello spring party, but we needed them just as eager to come to mine, even though some key people on the list barely knew me or didn't know me at all. We decided to do a Facebook event invitation that included a totally hot picture of Trista and me together and said flat-out that Trista was canceling her spring party this year because mine would be so much better.

Aside from the Facebook invitation, Trista wanted to invite two people via a separate e-mail: Seth Minkoff and Jordan Ross. They were weird picks. I knew Seth—or at least I knew of him. He was in my physics class. I had always thought of him and Jordan as hard-core Computer Dorks, barely a Tower tier above Robert Schwarner and Gabe Friedman. I had even seen the two of them barreling down the hall singing Monty Python's "The Lumberjack Song."

Dressed in red flannel lumberjack shirts.

On several occasions.

I couldn't fathom why Trista wanted them, but she said she always included a couple of charity cases on her guest lists. It was her way of giving back. I sent them an e-mail and invited them.

The person I didn't invite was Claudia. It felt horribly wrong to leave her out, but I knew from the moment Trista had come up with the plan that I'd have to. I couldn't risk having Claudia in the same place as Marsh and Ree-Ree. She knew the two of them were together now—I'd told her they'd "started" dating about a month after Eddie's party. But Claudia still wasn't over Marsh, so I worried about what she might say to them—and I worried more about what they might say to her in return.

Better to keep her in the dark. I hadn't told her anything about the party—not the idea of it, not the lunches with my dad leading up to it, nothing. It was hard censoring myself that way, but I'd done a good job. She had no idea, and she never would.

My biggest hurdle was still Karl, but I had come up with what I thought was a brilliant excuse. I said Saturday was Trista's birthday; she was having a full-weekend slumber party at her house to celebrate, and she'd be devastated if I weren't there. Karl liked Trista enough to be sympathetic, but he was adamant: any other weekend but not when I was meeting Dean Jaffe at the end of it. No amount of begging or cajoling changed his mind, so eventually I had to bring out the big guns: Trista herself came over for dinner.

As always, she was brilliant. She kissed up to Karl like crazy and assured him over and over that she would personally guarantee I got enough sleep and made it home bright and early Sunday to get ready for the lunch. She even used the NFL to help make her case. Most teams rarely practiced hard the day before a big game, she said. They busted their butts all week but pared it back the day before, to make sure all the players were healthy and rested when they needed it most. If I stayed home and stressed both nights before my interview, I might psych myself out and freeze up in front of Dean Jaffe. But if I spent those days relaxing at Trista's, I'd be fresh, calm, and ready for anything. This was my Super Bowl, and if Karl let me prep for it with a weekend at Trista's, I'd not only win it, I'd even beat the spread.

Bringing in both football and gambling was pure genius. Karl couldn't resist. He gave his permission, but I considered it tenuous at best. It was vital that I give him no reason whatsoever to reconsider, so I didn't complain even as my semigrounding started to make me crazy.

My cell rang and I checked the caller ID: Claudia. It was a week before my party, and I was trying to slog my way through a novel. Once upon a time, huddling in my room with a book would have been a near-perfect Saturday night, but now I couldn't even concentrate—I was too tortured imagining Trista and the gang out dancing without me. Talking to Claudia would be the perfect distraction.

"Know what the problem is with finally getting a life?" I asked as I answered the phone. "You totally miss it when it's gone."

Silence. Then, "You're having a party?"

My brain whirled. How did she know?

I raced to my computer, surfed to Facebook, and scanned my wall. Trista must have had everyone post before they went out tonight. It started with Trista's "Miz Hostess—Countdown 1 week 2 MEGA-CHIW par-tay! Super LA need not apply!"Then Kristie weighed in: "Hey C—LMK if U need help setting up. So X-ited!" Ree-Ree and Gemma came next, and all their postings inspired others to write about their own excitement, most likely to prove to the Facebook-sphere how cool they were to merit an invitation.

This was not supposed to happen. The party had its own event page. That's where everyone had been commenting, not on my wall where Claudia could see it!

"Cara?"

She sounded so small and uncertain. It was completely unlike her. I felt horrible.

"Yeah ... I'm having a party."

"And you weren't going to invite me?"

"I wanted to invite you. It's just ... Marsh and Ree-Ree..."

"You told me about Marsh and Ree-Ree. I know they're together now. You know I know that."

I felt my rib cage squeezing in on my heart and lungs. I had no idea how to explain this without telling Claudia what I'd revealed about her and how I'd lied about Marsh and Ree-Ree getting together after Eddie's party. I felt sick to my stomach imagining how she'd react, and even though I knew I deserved her anger, it didn't make me any more eager for it.

Then suddenly I realized I had a way out. I could tell Claudia a half truth, one that wouldn't hurt her feelings as much ... and maybe wouldn't make me quite so despicable.

"It's not you, Claude. It's Ree-Ree. She's crazy jealous. If she saw you and Marsh and got even the vaguest idea that you were ever together, she'd go nuclear. Party-destroying nuclear. And the party is supposed to take me from Penultimate to Supreme Populazzi, so if the party's destroyed—"

"Wait—you're saying you were keeping the party from me for the sake of the Ladder?"

"Yes."

My ribs were closing in tighter. Would she believe me?

"Well, that's madness," she said. "After all the work we've done, do you seriously think I'd ever get in the way of the Ladder? Don't you know me better than that?"

"I do! But I also know you'd love to come to the party, so I figured if you didn't know about it, you wouldn't have to feel bad about not going."

"Why wouldn't I go?" Claudia asked.

Um—wasn't that what we were just talking about?

"Because..." I floundered, "you just said you wouldn't want to get in the way of the Ladder ... and Ree-Ree seeing you would get in the way ... or it could..."

"Only if Ree-Ree suspected Marsh and I had a thing," Claudia said, "which she won't."

"She won't?"

"No. Not if I pretend Marsh and I have never met."

"But..." My brain spun with a million contradictions before I truly took in what she meant. "You really ... you would do that?"

"Of course! If I act like I don't know him, Ree-Ree can't get jealous. She never saw me at the other party, she has no idea who I am ... she'd never even suspect. I don't have to say a word to Marsh. Or her. I won't even look at either one of them. No interaction, no jealousy, no danger to the Ladder."

And no chance Marsh or Ree-Ree would say something to Claudia that I didn't want her to hear. I was still running her solution around my brain at hyperspeed to look for holes, but I found only one. "You're sure you'll be able to stay away from him?" I asked.

"Cara ... a little credit. It's not like I was in love with Marsh—we hung out one night, and that was months ago. I'm pretty sure I can find other things to do than moon over him and bother his jealous girlfriend. I don't know if you're aware, but I have a history of great success at Populazzi parties."

My rib cage finally unclenched as I laughed out loud. "Yeah, you do."

"So how did you get Karl to let you have the party at the house? Aren't you practically grounded?"

"Um ... the party's not here. It's at my dad's house."

"What? The Sperm Donor? And the Bar Wench? How have you not been telling me about this! I'm shutting up now. You're spilling. I want to know everything!"

Claudia and I talked for hours, and I filled her in on the whole story of the party, beginning to end. I even sent her the Facebook event page link so she could check out the invitation and guest list. Though Claudia still thought it was crazy that I hadn't told her everything immediately, she understood my motivation. She agreed that the party was the perfect way for Trista and me to publicly switch places, but it had to go off without a hitch. If all went well, I'd be seen as Supreme Populazzi by the time it was over, with Trista simply my highest-ranking Penultimate.

I felt great about the plan. To be honest, it was already working. The party was all anyone was talking about at school. And whenever someone would ask Trista about it, she'd say something like "I really don't know. You'd have to talk to Cara—this one's all her. It's going to be epic, though. I wouldn't miss it for anything." Ree-Ree, Kristie, and Gemma, who was back from her latest tournament, said similar things.

It's not that they knew about the master plan—they didn't—but they did know I was planning a party that would put every other event of the year to shame. Everyone knew it, and people looked at me with newfound respect and admiration. My guest list determined who was someone. Everyone wanted to be my friend. Even senior class Populazzi went out of their way to talk to me.

And for the first time in my life, I wasn't worried about what to say. The party was on my mind 24/7. I was constantly talking to Trista to compile lists of everything I needed: all the right music, food, and decorations. I spent every day between the end of school and dinnertime racing around to buy supplies. I paid for it all with my credit card—I'd find an explanation for Karl later. I stayed up late every night burning CDs and making iPod playlists. In my head I staged every square inch of Dad's house and choreographed every second of the party the way I wanted it to unfold. I could make scintillating conversation about this party to anyone, and people always lit up at the sight of me, like they always had for Trista.

The party hadn't even happened yet, and already I felt like that girl: that beautiful, confident, charming girl I'd always admired but never dreamed I could be.

I was so close. I just needed to seal the deal.