If You Were Here

although she’s presently passed out in my writing room. We offered her a regular guest room, but she said she wanted to sleep on the couch in “Jake Ryan’s bedroom.” I’m telling you, even though he was fictional, and despite the movie having come out twenty-seven years ago, you can’t negate the influence his character had on an entire generation of ladies.

At one point in the night, we all went outside and poured out a little bit of our drinks in John Hughes’s honor, and then we came in to dance to the Pretty in Pink sound track. I could not imagine having a better time. Lulu — no, Amanda even stopped by, and she and Ann Marie became instant besties.

I fear what this depraved pairing might bring forth.

I’m just locking the front door when I see an odd flash of light outside. “Mac?” I call. “Come check this out.”

Mac flips off the porch light and we both peer into the darkness. In the distance we see a car idling at the end of our driveway.

“Mac, is that a. . Bentley?”

Mac cranes his neck to get a better view. “How about that? It is. Did you invite any latecomers who drive a Bentley?”

I wave him off.“Pfft, I don’t know anyone who drives a Bentley. What, is Puffy going to show up at our housewarming? Kanye? A Kardashian? Be real. The only time I’ve ever even seen a Bentley is when Vienna used to—”

“Speak of the devil.” Mac and I have been heading quietly down the driveway in the shadows and now have a much better vantage point of what’s happening at the end of our drive.

“Is that her?”

“You don’t recognize the hair extensions?”

I’m not entirely surprised that Vienna’s showed up here. To say she was pissed about getting fired would be an understatement. Apparently she’d already gotten “Miriam” tattooed across the small of her back when she got the news. We’ve been expecting some kind of revenge but weren’t sure of the form it would take until now.

Vienna’s standing outside of her car with a Dom Perignon bottle, and it would appear that she’s created a Molotov cocktail of her own. We quietly observe her sticking a strip of cloth in the bottle, and we step back into the brush line while she lights it. Then, with all her might, she hurls it in the direction of our house.

The problem is, we’ve got this big old black mailbox at the end of our driveway. Remember how our mailbox caused so much consternation in the neighborhood when we put up the beautiful red iron one? After we’d installed it, we shone an uplight on it so people could see it in the dark and they wouldn’t accidentally hit it with their cars on our winding street.

But everyone threw such a fit over our tacky¹⁷⁴ mailbox that in a fit of goodwill, we took it down and replaced it with the old, boring, big black box. Then we unplugged the light because it was causing everyone so much aesthetic distress.

Vienna’s standing ten feet away from the mailbox, but because of its color and the late hour, it’s practically invisible. When she tosses her Molotov cocktail, she’s not, in fact, throwing it into all the dry brush surrounding the front of our house. Instead, what happens is that the bottle shatters when it hits the mailbox, and because she’s standing so close to it, she becomes covered in its flammable contents, which ignite when her lit cigarette falls out of her agape mouth.

And that’s when we’re all taught a little chemistry lesson, although it’s Vienna who really learns that polystyrene hair extensions work as an ad hoc wick, and her entire head goes up in flames.

Before Mac can jog back to the house to grab a hose,Vienna’s flunky immediately douses her with Diet Snapple and whacks her flaming do with the new Marc Jacobs hobo bag while Vienna sheds every inch of her flaming clothing. Then they both hop into her car and scream off into the night.

“Mac,” I say,“I’m pretty sure we haven’t heard the last of Vienna.”

“I suspect you’re right,” he agrees.

Then I lean back into his arms. “Do you care?”

“Right now? Not a bit.”

“Want to know what’s funny?” I ask.

“Hmm?”

“If ORNESTEGA taught us anything, it was to wear a full set of drawers before trying to set someone’s house on fire. Also? I bet Vienna would kill for a pair of Spider-Man underpants right about now.”

Chapter Twenty-three. HAPPILY EVER AFTER

Now that our house is done and our neighbors’ hatred has morphed from active to dormant, I’m ready to enjoy every amenity this community has to offer.

Huh.

Somehow I thought there’d be more amenities.

Is it possible that twenty-plus years of John Hughes movies built unrealistic expectations?

Epilogue

“Hello, sir, it’s been a while, hasn’t it? Six months, to be exact. I know, I know; I meant to come, but I guess we’ve just been a little preoccupied. Mac’s been back at work for a while, and he got a big promotion, and the commute’s been making him crazy. Me? I’ve been busy working on a new book that I kind of love. It’s a departure in that I’m giving the Amish a little vacation for now and I’m writing more of what I know. This one takes place in a regular suburban high school.”

I fiddle with the package in my hand and shift from foot to foot to warm up. There’s a ton of snow on my usual bench, so I don’t sit down. “I guess the big news is. . we bought a house back in the city. Turns out once our place was finished we realized how bored we are in Abington Cambs. Seriously, they roll the streets up at eight p.m. around here, and I’ve got zip in common with the Ladies Who Lunch or the Ladies Who Life Time (Fitness). This would be an amazing place to raise kids, but it’s just not for us.

“No, we’re not selling the place. My family plans to expand the business to the Midwest and they need a base of operations, so Babcia and Jessica and her family are going to stay in my house. So I’ll be around. Not as much, but I’ll stop by from time to time.

“Anyway, I brought you a little something different today. I hope you like it. And because I can’t say it enough, thanks for everything, sir.”

Then I place a copy of my new manuscript on the ground before I walk away.

I’m calling it Sixteen Zombies.

Acknowledgments

Before I get to the thanking part, I have to apologize to the owners of the house featured in Sixteen Candles. This home (the outside, at least — haven’t been peeking in anyone’s windows) (yet) is nothing short of spectacular, and I’m sure the neighbors are lovely. Should this book cause people