A Special Late-Night Delivery
When the cab dropped me off on my stoop, I raced inside to see what kind of shape our kitchen was in for an all-night cooking affair. Luckily, the Flood household was spotless and—not surprisingly—empty.
I cranked up Morgan’s CD, turned on some mood lighting, and made my slumber party specialty—popcorn mixed with M&M’s and almonds. Ramsey and the girls were stopping by Zabar’s to pick up supplies, so I figured if I were bringing a crew of midnight helpers over, I should at least give them the royal treatment.
When the doorbell rang, I stepped outside to let in Camille, Ramsey, and the rest of the field hockey team. Everyone had brought pajamas, and each girl carried a bag of groceries.
“Chef service!” Camille called out. “Sort of like room service, except you have to do all the work.”
“Thank you guys so much for coming over,” I said, showing everyone inside. I was just about to shut the door when I saw three more figures approaching my stoop. As they climbed up the stairs, I realized it was Harper, Amory, and Morgan, each carrying a bag of groceries.
“We heard you were catering Virgil yourself,” Harper said, shaking her head. “Have you ever heard of taking it easy?”
“Seriously,” Amory agreed.
“I don’t cook,” Morgan admitted. “But I will late-night DJ to keep the troops energized for the long haul.”
“The more the merrier.” I laughed. “And we can definitely use a DJ.”
“Okay, team,” I heard Ramsey call out from the kitchen. When I led Harper, Amory, and Morgan inside, she was sitting on the counter with a clipboard in her lap. “Let’s huddle up and talk strategy.” Apparently, Ramsey was as unstoppable in the kitchen as she was on the hockey field. “We’ll have four stations: appetizers, salads, mains, and desserts. We’ll divvy up the ingredients, make menus, coordinate oven times, and make this thing happen. Are you with me?”
And so, at ten thirty on Thursday night, twenty exhausted girls huddled up, and not even Camille groaned about the strategizing.
Within minutes, my kitchen, which had never in its life seen so much action, was transformed into a serious work zone. A cloud of flour rose up over the dessert section as the girls set to work cutting out pastry shells for fruit tarts. Ramsey stood on her tiptoes and oversaw the glazing of the teriyaki tofu. Camille demonstrated the best way to seed the tomatoes for her famous bruschetta. Harper pulled out some amazing skills toasting nuts for the salads she’d decided we would serve in coffee cups. Morgan donned a large pair of Patch’s DJ headphones and pumped us up by mixing some energetic techno beats. And I took breaks from my role assisting Camille on the garlic chopping and walked around the kitchen holding out the bowl of magic popcorn to anyone who needed an extra boost.
By midnight, the kitchen was a disaster, but we were halfway through the preparation. Camille came up and put her arm around me. “When Willa dropped that bomb on you tonight, I never thought I’d get to say this … but I think we just might pull this crazy idea off.”
Just then, the doorbell rang, and Camille and I shared a confused look.
“You don’t think that’s Willa and Kennedy, do you?” I asked. They were the only two members of the hockey team not representing at my house tonight. “I thought we sort of had a moment on the runway tonight. Maybe they’re—”
Camille raised an eyebrow at me. “What,” she said, “maybe they’ve stopped being agents of evil? I don’t know, Flan, I wouldn’t get your hopes up. People are different on and off the runway.”
I went to the door with no idea what I’d be confronted with, and what I found was even more startling than a contrite Kennedy and Willa.
“SBB!” I cried. “Oh my God, what happened to you?”
She looked like she’d been through Hell and back again. Her blond hair was matted to her face, and her cream colored dress was lopsided and falling off her shoulder—and suddenly, I realized it was all my fault.
“Oh no!” I said, covering my face with my flour-covered hands.
“You forgot about me. I left you twenty-seven messages, but you still forgot about me,” she peeped before collapsing at my feet. “And now my life is over.”
“Oh, SBB,” I said. “I’m so sorry. The show ran late, and my phone was off …” I held out my arms and helped her inside the living room, away from the chaos of the kitchen. “What happened?”
“What didn’t happen?” she wailed. “I couldn’t get a hold of you. I stopped by and no one was here except for Patch, who told me not to go with the Nanette Lepore. I realize now I should never listen to Patch’s opinion on fashion, but I couldn’t help it! He was the closest thing I could find to you. And so I ditched the first dress we’d agreed on, and I went with this ridiculous Gucci ensemble.” She flicked the gorgeous satin gown at her hips. “Huge mistake,” she said, looking up at me with big, mascara-streaked eyes.
“Ashleigh Ann?” I asked, feeling my heart drop into my stomach. Sure, SBB had a tendency to over-dramatize the situation, but this one sounded real, and I was scared to hear whether her biggest fears had actually come true.
SBB nodded. “Same Jimmy Choo shoes, same Gucci dress, same Versace clutch. Grade A red carpet disaster. And she showed up first, effectively ruining my reputation. I was the copycat. There was nothing to be done.”
“Oh SBB—”
“And then,” she said, not letting me finish, “Gloria showed up and forced me to have dinner with her at Per Se. JR got sucked into a brainstorming meeting with Garrison Toyota, and I was left alone—alone—with the woman who continues to lord over me the fact the she gave me life. She spent at least an hour trying to bribe me into letting her have custody of me again. The nerve, Flan, the absolute nerve! It could not have been more of a disaster.” She turned to look at me with her big blue eyes, and I felt like just as much of an irresponsible mother as Gloria. “Why weren’t you there, Flan?” SBB pleaded. “My career is basically over, so I’ve got all the time in the world to listen to your excuse.”
Just then, Ramsey poked her head into the living room. “Flan, can you taste this sauce?” she asked. “Wait, aren’t you Sara-Beth Benny?”
SBB sighed. “I used to be,” she said, shooting me a look. “Now I am a shadow of my former self, no thanks to Flan. I’ll taste the sauce.”
Ramsey shrugged and put the wooden spoon to SBB’s lips.
SBB savored the sauce for a minute, then said, “Hmm. Add a touch of salt, some rosemary, maybe cut it with a little honey. Overall, I think it’s pretty good. But”—she wagged a menacing finger at me—“we are not good.”
As I watched her huddled figure plod to my front door before slamming it behind her, my heart twisted up. I couldn’t believe I’d let my best friend down. As I plopped down on the couch, I thought: I had to figure out a way to make it up to her.
“Flan,” Camille called out from the kitchen, “we need you. We can’t figure out how to work the blow torch for the chocolate crème brûlée.”
“I’ll be right there.” I sighed and heaved myself off the couch. Tomorrow, I thought. I’ll have to figure it all out tomorrow.