“Not if it’s a party for you.”
Sue, whose Korean given name, Soo Hyun, had been slightly Americanized by an immigration official, had also disappointed her parents by becoming an art major in college—which was how we’d bonded—although her parents were too softhearted to stay mad for long. Eventually they’d kind of adopted me, and they liked to tease Sue by calling me their favorite child.
All to say—this party was happening.
This was our Oscar and Felix dynamic. Sue always optimistically, energetically, and joyfully searched out ways for us to extrovert. And I always resisted. And then grudgingly gave in.
“You can’t organize a party in two hours,” I protested.
“Challenge accepted,” Sue said. Then she added, “I’ve already sent the group text.”
But I still kept protesting, even after I’d lost. “My place isn’t fit for a party. It’s not even fit for me.”
Sue wasn’t going to fight me on that. I was sleeping on a Murphy bed I’d found in the large trash. But she was also not brooking protests. “We’ll all stay outside. It’s fine. You can finally hang those bulb lights. We’ll invite everybody awesome. All you have to do is get some wine.”
“I can’t afford wine.”
But Sue wasn’t liking my attitude. “How many people entered the first round?” she demanded.
“Two thousand,” I said, already giving in.
“How many finalists are there?”
“Ten,” I answered.
“Exactly,” Sue said. “You’ve already annihilated one thousand nine hundred and ninety competitors.” She paused for impact, then snapped her fingers as she said, “What’s another nine?”
“How is that relevant?” I asked.
“You’re about to win ten thousand dollars. You can afford one bottle of wine.”
* * *
AND SO SUE set about making a last-minute party happen.
She invited all our art-major friends—with the exception of my ex-boyfriend, Ezra—and some of her art-teacher buddies, and her longtime boyfriend, Witt—not an artist: a business guy who’d been the captain of his track team in college. Sue’s parents approved of him, even though he wasn’t Korean, because he was sweet to her—and also because he made a good living and so, as her dad put it, she could be “a starving artist without having to starve.”
Sue said—lovingly—that Witt could be our token jock.
My job was to put on the vintage pink party dress with appliquéd flowers that had once been my mother’s and that I wore only on very, very special occasions … and then to go off in search of the most wine I could get with a twenty-dollar bill.
I lived in the old, warehouse-y part of downtown, and the only grocery store within walking distance had been there since the 1970s—a cross between a bodega and a five-and-dime. There was fresh fruit up front, and old-time R&B played on the sound system, and Marie, the ever-present owner, sat by the register. She always wore bright-patterned caftans that lit up her warm brown skin, and she called everybody baby.
Just as I walked in, my phone rang. It was my dad calling me back.
Now that the initial rush had passed, I debated whether to answer. Maybe I was just setting us both up for disappointment.
But in the end, I picked up.
“Sadie, what is it?” my dad said, all business. “I’m boarding a flight to Singapore.”
“I was calling you with some good news,” I said, ducking into the cereal aisle and hushing my voice.
“I can’t hear you,” my dad said.
“I just have some good news,” I said a little louder. “That I wanted”—was I really doing this?—“to share.”
But my dad just sounded irritated. “They’ve got dueling announcements going over the loudspeakers and I’ve got one percent battery. Can it wait? I’ll be back in ten days.”
“Of course it can wait,” I said, already deciding that he’d forfeited his chance. Maybe I’d tell him when I had that ten-thousand-dollar check in my pocket. If he was lucky.
Or maybe not. Because right then the line went dead.
He hadn’t hung up on me, exactly. He’d just moved on to other things.
We were done here. Without a goodbye. As usual.
It was fine. I had a party to go to. And wine to buy.
As I moved into the wine aisle, Smokey Robinson came over the sound system with a song that had been one of my mom’s favorites—“I Second That Emotion.”
Normally I would never sing along out loud to anything in public—especially in falsetto. But I had many happy memories of singing along to that song with my mom, and I knew it was all too easy for me to stew over my dad’s toxicity, and it kind of felt, in that moment, like Smokey had showed up right then to throw me an emotional lifeline.
I glanced over at the owner. She was on the phone with somebody, laughing. And as far as I could tell, there was no one else in the store.
So I gave in and sang along—quietly at first, and then a little louder when Marie didn’t notice me at all. Shifting back and forth to the beat, there in my ballet flats and my mom’s pink party dress, I just gave in and let myself feel better—doing a shimmy my mom taught me and throwing in an occasional booty shake.
Just a little private, mood-lifting dance party for one.
And then something hit me, there in the aisle, singing an old favorite song while wearing my long-lost mother’s dress: My mother—also a portrait artist—had placed in this contest, too.
This exact same contest. The year I turned fourteen.
I’d known it when I applied. But to be honest, I applied to so many contests so often, and I got rejected so relentlessly, I hadn’t thought too much about it.
But this was the one. The one she’d been painting a portrait for—of me, by the way—when she died. She never finished the portrait, and she never made it to the show.
What had happened to that portrait? I suddenly wondered.
If I had to bet? Lucinda threw it away.
I’m not a big weeper, in general. And I’m sure it was partly all the excitement of placing in the contest, and partly the unexpected harshness of my dad’s voice just then, and partly the fact that I was wearing my long-lost mother’s clothes, and partly the realization that this contest was her contest … but as happy as I felt singing along to that old favorite song in an empty grocery store, I felt sad, too.
I felt my eyes spring with tears over and over, and I had to keep wiping them away. You wouldn’t think you could do all those things at once, would you? Dancing, singing, and getting misty-eyed? But I’m here as proof: It’s possible.
But maybe that song really was a talisman for joy, because just as the song was ending, I spotted a wine with a celebratory polka-dotted label on sale for six dollars a bottle.
By the time I made it to the register with my arms full of wine, I was feeling like Sue had the right idea. Of course we should celebrate! I’d have to put my dog Peanut—who was even more introverted than I was—in the closet with his dog bed for a few hours, but he’d forgive me. Probably.