reached Jessica Bradley’s door, my hands started to shake.
To hide my nervousness, I silently did a ritual that always calmed me: Grammy Greta’s Good Luck Chant. My grandmother had been gone for only a little over a year, but I still missed her so much. Thinking about her made me sad, but happy, too, because she’d been so great. She’d said I could achieve anything, if I worked hard and listened to my heart. A week before she died, she told me she’d had a premonition that my dreams would come true.
“Impossible,” I’d argued, because I’d just found out that my parents had used my college fund for fertility treatments. They’d promised to pay it back, but the cost of raising triplets was insane.
“Believe,” Grammy Greta told me. “I have a direct line to wisdom on the other side, and know that great things are in your future.”
Great things? Did she mean I’d get a scholarship to a prestigious university and become a successful entertainment agent? That I wouldn’t be stuck living at home forever, taking care of the triplets or flipping burgers?
Then Grammy handed me a rainbow woven bracelet like something you’d pick up at a dollar store. “This is a lucky bracelet,” she said with a mischievous wink. “Twist it three times and repeat the magical chant.”
“What chant?” I’d asked, playing along.
She leaned so close I could smell her wintergreen mouthwash. When she whispered a familiar poem about a bear in my ear, I tried not to giggle. Only Grammy would choose such a corny chant: “Twist the bracelet twice to the right then once to the left, and seal the luck with a kiss.”
I felt really stupid kissing a bracelet, but I did it for Grammy.
Then she reminded me that this was our secret and not to tell anyone.
“I won’t tell anyone,” I promised, “except Alyce.”
Grammy chuckled. “Of course. Don’t tell anyone except Alyce.”
When we hugged, I had no idea it would be the last time I hugged my grandmother.
Now as I stared down at the bracelet I smelled roses — Grammy’s perfume. I turned my bracelet to the right two times, the left once, whispered the chant, then turned my back to Trinidad so she wouldn’t see when I sealed the magic with a kiss.
And it was the craziest thing — but I imagined I heard Grammy’s voice saying “believe.” I felt my courage rising.
After that everything was a glamorous blur.
A maid ushered us into an imposing “foy-yay” with gilt-framed portraits, a standing coat rack, and an elegant oval wall mirror. She checked our names off an official list, then escorted us across a gold-flecked marble floor, past a formal dining room with a crystal chandelier the size of a refrigerator. A curved mahogany staircase arched overhead.
The maid’s heels made hollow clip-clip sounds on the tile while my sandals clunked and left a dirt trail. Please, no one notice, I prayed.
We were led to a garden patio with lovely hanging flower baskets and golden crepe streamers. Round tables with white tablecloths and glowing candles were arranged on the faux-grass lawn. Buffet tables oozed with exotic delicacies and a sparkling pink punch waterfall. Way cool!
A band played on a cement podium where a few kids danced. Most guests were my age, but there were token adults, too. Everyone was talking and laughing in cozy groups, or sitting at the tables with heaping plates of food. I recognized some kids from school, either because we’d shared classes or I’d welcomed them with a HHC basket.
“Trinidad! Amber!”
I turned and there was Jessica Bradley, gorgeous in a sapphire-hued sundress that enhanced her blue eyes and smooth olive skin. Waving her multi-ringed hand, she glided over to us and air kissed our cheeks. I almost pinched myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. This so felt like some glam moment from a movie.
“You made it! I’m so glad,” Jessica said with a sincerity that put me at ease. Well, almost. I was more used to family parties held in a crowded living room. A mansion, maid, caterers …
“Hi, Jessica,” I said, scratching covertly. “Sorry we’re late. It’s not Trinidad’s fault. I made a wrong turn and —”
“No need to explain.” Her black curls swayed as she shook her head. “Everyone is late. It’s unfashionably rude to come on time.”
“Anything not to be rude,” I joked.
Jessica turned to Trinidad. “You look great — that’s a Kiana original, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Trinidad replied. “Kiana is so new. I can’t believe you recognize her work.”
“I know all the designers that matter. I almost bought a similar outfit but they only had it in yellow, which is tragic on me. Looks fabulous on you, though, and I love the glitter strands woven in your braid.”
“Thanks.” Trinidad flashed her future-diva smile, seeming totally at ease.
“Amber,” Jessica turned to me. “You … um … have such an original style. I’d never be brave enough to wear a guy’s shirt, but it looks so … unique on you.”
“Uh … thanks.” I think.
“I’m so glad you came. Not just because you brought Trinidad — which was incredibly sweet of you. With all your basket club experience I’m sure you’ll bring lots of creative ideas to our charity planning committee. It’s important to collect food for starving kids. I feel it’s our duty to do all we can. Don’t you?”
“Of course.”
“I’m going to introduce Trinidad around, since she’s new. Amber, feel free to hang out and help yourself to the buffet.” Jessica waved toward a table heaping with assorted dishes and platters. Then she rushed off toward this blond guy named Tristan I recognized from my trig class — an arrogant jerk who kept trying to cheat off my tests.
I poured a drink from the pink punch fountain and wandered around, smiling and reminding classmates who I was. I received blank stares. I never had trouble talking with Alyce and Dustin, and wished they were here. But they scorned “society”; this was definitely not their kind of party. I wasn’t sure it was mine, either — although the book
The buffet was a delicious new experience. I nibbled on spicy chicken legs and oriental noodles while looking around for a friendly face. Across the lawn, in a gazebo, I spotted Trinidad with Jessica and some of her crowd. I started to go over until I noticed that the chairs were full. Could be awkward. So I plopped down next to a chatty woman with silver-blue coifed hair. Leisl, as she asked me to call her, was Jessica’s great aunt. After twenty minutes listening to her stories, I escaped to the dessert buffet.
Confession: I have a passion for chocolate. I crave, obsess, lust for chocolate — which is why my clothes are double-digit size. It’s a sinful obsession, a constant struggle. Once I start eating chocolate, abandon all hope. I can
“Try the pecan truffles.”
I turned to find a medium-tall guy with tight brown curls and hazel eyes. Why was he so familiar? He must go to my school, although I couldn’t think of his name.
“Okay,” I answered, putting a pecan truffle in my mouth. Rich milk chocolate and crunchy nuts. The candy melted in my mouth.
The guy was nodding, and chewing on his own chocolate pecan. He pointed at a dish heaped with white squares dimpled with red specks. I nodded too, swallowed the chocolate bliss, and tried one of the white squares.
I moaned in delight. “Oh, this is
“A true chocolate connoisseur.”
“These desserts are amazing. So many in one place!”
His gaze swept the table. “Thirty-seven plates with approximately twenty-five candies on each plate, adding in variables of size, equaling approximately—”
“Nine hundred and twenty-five candies,” I finished.
His hazel eyes widened, clearly impressed.
“I’m a math geek,” I admitted.
“You, too?”
