The pop star boyfriend patches things up
By the time the clock struck two a.m., twenty-four trays had been filled with yummy Virgil-worthy noshes, and Ramsey, Harper, Amory, and Morgan were drying the last of the non-dishwasher-safe dishes.
“You guys are lifesavers,” I said as the four of them lined up at the door to put on their coats and scarves.
“No sweat,” Amory said. “It’s good practice for when I audition for the role of Cinderella. See you tomorrow!”
Back in the kitchen, Camille was pulling one final tray of brownies out of the oven.
“Last women standing,” I said.
Camille laid the brownies on a trivet, tossed both oven mitts over her shoulder, and started cracking up.
“What’s so funny?” I said.
“I have no idea,” she wheezed, gripping her sides. “Nothing. I’m just slap happy from the amount of food produced in this kitchen in one night.”
“I don’t think it will ever happen again,” I said, shaking my head. “I can’t wait to tell my mom that someone finally figured out how to use the oven without singeing anything in the process.”
“Do we have any more of that magic popcorn left?” Camille asked, looking around the kitchen.
“I’ll make another batch,” I said, picking up the empty bowl.
“Don’t bother,” Camille said. “I’m just used to snacking on that when we gossip. But I don’t know if I can even look at any more food. It’s probably better if we both just collapse.”
“Wait,” I said, “does that mean we finally get to gossip, even if there’s no magic popcorn to get us going?”
“Well”—Camille sighed dramatically—“I guess we probably should.”
We crawled to the living room and each claimed one of the brown suede couches. I tossed Camille a blanket and we put on old TiVoed episodes of Gossip Girl to set the mood.
“So, did you see him kiss me?” Camille asked, squirming into her pillow.
“He kissed you?” I squealed.
“Shhh! What if someone hears?” Camille said, looking around the empty living room.
As soon as she realized how completely irrational that fear was, we both busted out laughing. We laughed so hard that we started crying, which always happened to us at the exact same time. Just as we were finally calming down, a panicked thought popped into my head.
“Camille,” I said, shooting up on the couch.
“What is it?” she asked. “Don’t tell me you made some other plans tonight that you forgot about?”
“No,” I said. “This time, I’m actually planning ahead. How in the world are we going to get all this food to Virgil?”
At that instant, my front door burst open, and Patch sauntered in wearing a top hat and a tuxedo. Next to him stood a guy in a large puffy black coat with a pulled up fur-trimmed hood and dark sunglasses.
“What are you doing up, Flan?” Patch said. “Figured you’d be conked out after your big runway event.” He motioned to his mysterious companion. “You know Jake Riverdale, right?”
I squinted at the masked man. When he removed his hood and his shades to reveal his gorgeous pop star face and trademark dimpled smile, I had to do a double take. I mean, I’d spent months of my life talking about JR with SBB, but until this moment I’d never actually met him.
“What’s up, little Flood,” he said, shaking his head. “Wait, are you the famous Flan my girl is always raving about?”
“Um, I used to be,” I said, feeling another wave of guilt wash over me. “But probably not anymore. SBB was pretty upset with me tonight,” I rambled, suddenly aware that I was in the incredibly hot presence of the JR. Camille was practically hyperventilating next to me. “And I deserved it—”
“Don’t sweat it,” JR said. “I think she was just frantic about seeing Gloria. I’m already in hot water with her for ducking out on dinner. If anyone has groveling to do, it’s me. I think I’m going to go over to her house tomorrow morning, make her breakfast, and see if she’ll agree to let me take her out tomorrow night—”
“Wait a minute,” I said, holding up a finger. “I think I have an idea.”
“Does your idea include JR and me chowing down on some of whatever smells so good in the kitchen?” Patch said. “I’m starving.”
“No,” I said sternly. “We did not cook all night for you to tear through our hors d’oeuvres in five minutes. We need that stuff for tomorrow—if we can figure out a way to get it there.”
“I’ll make you a deal,” Patch said. “You let JR and me have a very small sample of your fancy food, and I’ll call a friend who can arrange to get everything delivered to your party.”
“Okay,” I said. “But only one bite each!”
“Dude,” JR said as he and Patch headed into the kitchen. “She always this bossy? Is that where SBB learns it?”
But whatever Patch had to say about my bossiness fell on deaf ears, because just then my head hit the pillow, and I fell fast asleep.