ON FRIDAY I DISCOVERED a shiny silver envelope in my locker, the corner edge peeking out from the grate where it had been slipped. My name looked like it had been laser-printed in a fancy font on the envelope. “Katherine Morgan” it read. On closer inspection, I realized that it was calligraphy, written by hand in deep blue ink.
I felt a surge of excitement, despite the fact that my name was wrong. It was an invitation to Tiffany’s birthday party. I had just assumed there was no way I would be invited. She was still at war with my best friend, which I thought pretty much killed any chance I had of going. Tiffany and I had worked as lab partners during our sophomore year, but she barely spoke to me the entire semester except to inform me that she would not be cutting into dead frogs. Maybe the fact that I had completed the dissection lab by myself counted for something and she was paying me back with an invitation.
I grabbed the silver envelope and the books I needed for class, slammed my locker shut and hurried off to first period history.
“Guess what was in my locker this morning?” I said to Lan as I slid into my seat.
“Guess what was in everyone’s locker this morning,” Lan grumbled.
“You were invited? That’s great!” I exclaimed happily.
“Look again. It’s not what you think.”
I carefully opened the envelope. The metallic pearl-colored paper was heavy in my hand, the exact opposite of the delicate cream-colored stationery folded inside. I read over the paper several times and then looked at Lan in confusion.
“It’s an invitation to the invitation?”
Lan nodded. “She wants the entire school to show up in the parking lot next Tuesday just to see if they’ve been invited to her little soiree.”
“What makes her think anyone’s that desperate?”
“Well, the camera crew will be there, so I’m pretty sure she’ll get a crowd.”
I rolled my eyes and shoved the pseudoinvitation into my backpack. I looked around the room and saw other people examining their own silver envelopes, furrowing their brows and trying to make sense of them.
I hadn’t told Lan yet that I had revealed her crush to Eli. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to. Eli had sworn he wouldn’t say anything to Trent, but he’d also said there was a problem.
“The thing is, Brady kind of likes Lan,” he’d admitted.
“I thought Brady was dating a sophomore.”
“He was. They broke up.”
According to Eli, Trent would never date a girl if one of his friends liked her. It was some kind of loyalty code among guys. I told Eli I would try my best to get Lan to see the better qualities of Brady, but I wasn’t making any promises.
“She really likes Trent,” I said. “A lot.”
“Well, Brady really likes her. A lot.”
I decided that we needed to do whatever we could to make our friends happy, but Eli wanted to stay out of the way and let fate take its course.
“But what if fate needs a little nudge?” I asked.
“Fate never needs a nudge,” Eli responded. “It only needs time.”
I was still thinking about what Eli had said—Fate only needs time—when Tiffany stormed into class. She didn’t look as happy as I would have expected the most incredibly popular girl at school to appear. In fact, she looked downright mad.
“Principal Carter is a complete moron,” she announced to the class as she slammed her purse onto her desk. Mr. Gildea hadn’t arrived yet, which was a good thing because there was no way he would tolerate her bashing the principal in his class, even if the complaint was remotely true.
Without waiting for anyone to ask why specifically Principal Carter was a complete moron, Tiffany dove into a bitter tirade.
“The camera crew wants to follow me around for one day. Just one day! They need some school footage,” she explained as she furiously twirled a lock of hair. “But no, Carter says he can’t have any more ‘disruptions to the learning environment.’ Can you believe that?”
I wasn’t sure if we were supposed to respond or not. Most people were nodding sympathetically. After all, Tiffany was their ticket to a few golden minutes on national television. Her loss was our loss, I guessed.
Mr. Gildea walked in and began to take attendance. Tiffany sighed loudly, which Mr. Gildea ignored. “Time for our morning debate,” he said. “Who would like to begin?”
Tiffany didn’t bother to raise her hand. “It is grossly unjust that one man can prevent the national media from doing its job.”
Mr. Gildea nodded. “Gross injustice is always a good topic,” he said, trying to suppress a smile. I didn’t think Tiffany realized he was poking fun at her.
“This is only the most socially significant event to occur in this town in a hundred years,” Tiffany continued. “And for one man to attempt to destroy that…”
“How is your party being destroyed?” Brady interrupted. “It’ll still be on TV. And isn’t that what you want above all else? To cash in on your fifteen minutes of fame?”
He sounded annoyed, which was strange, because I was pretty sure that he was on the invitation list. Tiffany would want Trent to be there, and he never went anywhere without his friends. Invite Trent, and you invited them all.
Mr. Gildea jumped in before Tiffany and Brady could really go at it. “Let’s focus on more historical examples of gross injustice,” he said. “Turn to page thirty-four, please.”
The rest of the day went by smoothly. Work was crazy because it was a Friday and for some reason people drink way more coffee on Friday than any other day—except for Monday morning, according to Bonnie. Eli’s theory was that people wanted to be wide-awake when they went out on Friday night. My theory was that they were just treating themselves to something decadent—like our chocolate fudge brownie cappuccino—because it was the end of the workweek. We were debating this for the hundredth time when Bonnie came in.
“Hello, dears,” she called out. Bonnie always came by on Friday so she could take the day’s money to the bank and lock up for the weekend.
“Eli, dear, does your brother still work for that sign company?” she asked.
Eli shook his head. “Not anymore. Ben’s working at a lumberyard for a while.”
Ben changed his major every semester, worked a new job every few months and spent his summers following bands around on tour. Eli said he was just trying to find himself. I thought he sounded a little scatterbrained.
“Hmm. Well, maybe I’ll ask someone locally,” Bonnie murmured.
“Are you getting a new sign?” I asked.
“I’d like to. Something a little more eye-catching, you know?”
Something’s Brewing was the most unusual building in town, so I wasn’t sure how Bonnie could make it more eye-catching unless she covered the place with Christmas lights and pink plastic flamingos. But I knew that once Bonnie decided upon something that was it. One way or another, Something’s Brewing would stand out even more.
Bonnie and Eli were still talking when my dad arrived in his cruiser a half hour later. I was fully caffeinated and looking forward to the weekend as I sat in the front seat. I never sat in the back of my dad’s police car. When I was a little kid I thought it was neat and would wave to people, but as I got older it became embarrassing. People always looked over at us while they waited at stoplights, and when they saw me sitting there behind the caged divider, I knew they thought I was some teenage drug addict or prostitute or something.
“How was your day?” Dad asked. His police scanner crackled as he pulled out of the parking lot.
“Pretty good.”
“Anything interesting happen?”
“Nope.”
“Your classes are good?”
“Yep.”
My dad and I had the same conversation nearly every day. I don’t know what he expected me to say. School was school. Each day was pretty much like the one before unless it was the day before a vacation, in which case everything was crazy. Still, I tried to give him at least one detail so he’d feel like we were actually talking instead of just reciting the same words over and over.
“I got a ninety on my English essay,” I told him. “I think I’ll get an A this semester.”
“That’s nice,” he said. I could tell he was distracted by something because he slowed down a little and kept glancing to the left.
“Yeah. It’s too bad I’m failing all my other classes,” I joked.
“Well, good,” he said. He wasn’t paying attention anymore. I wondered what had caught his eye. Suddenly, he made a sharp left and sped up. I braced my arm against the door.
“Whoa,” I said. “What’s going on?”
Dad didn’t answer because he was barking numbers into his police scanner. He turned abruptly again, this time into the parking lot of Cleary Dry Cleaners. I panicked when I saw what we were doing there: a group of six kids wearing hoodie jackets was spray-painting the side of the building. I slouched down in my seat, hoping they weren’t kids from school and that they wouldn’t see me.
Dad turned on the flashing lights.
“Wait here,” he said.
He got out of the car and approached the kids. I thought for sure they would have started running as soon as they saw the cop car, but they were frozen in place. I peered over the dashboard to get a better look at them and was relieved that not one of them was tall enough to be any of the boys I knew from school. In fact, they were all short. Middle-school short. I sat up straighter. Was it possible that these little kids were responsible for the gorillas?
I looked over at the brick wall. They had been trying to paint a gorilla, but it was nowhere near as good as the ones at school. “Copycats,” I murmured.
A few minutes later, two more squad cars pulled up and Dad let the new officers handle the situation. He shook his head as we headed home.
“I don’t think those kids will be out spray-painting again any time soon,” he said.
“Did you scare them?” I asked.
Dad chuckled. “I think so. They were young, not even thirteen. We’ll call their parents. I think that might be punishment enough.”
I was relieved that my classmates had not been involved, but mad that my dad had taken me along with him. What if it had been kids I knew? Mom would freak if she found out. She always anticipated the worst, like gangs with knives hidden in their pants. Dad seemed to know what I was thinking.
“I’m sorry about that,” he said. “I shouldn’t have involved you.”
I nodded. “I’ll tell Mom. I think that will be punishment enough.”
He smiled. “Any way we can leave Mom out of it? Name your price.”
I pretended to think about it, but I already knew what I wanted. “Driving lessons,” I told him. “And I want to drive Mom’s car, not the cruiser.”
Dad sighed. “I don’t know.”
I shrugged. “Okay. I have my cell right here. Maybe I’ll just call Mom…”
“Fine. You got me. Three driving lessons. That’s all.”
I settled into my seat, satisfied. As we drove home I thought more about the graffiti. The person responsible was still out there, and I wondered when—and where—the gorillas would appear next.