The city bus lurched to a stop and coolly exhaled two twenty-
somethings clad in sequined mini-dresses. As the pair stepped onto the pavement, the summer heat rose in waves around them, and the air had the unpleasant odor of a city street gone too long without rain. Jamie flipped back her hair, squared her shoulders, and started down the sidewalk at a quick clip. Lisa followed, her ponytail wilting in the humidity.
“How much farther is it?” Lisa asked. “I can barely walk in these heels.”
“Then take them off,” said Jamie over her shoulder.
“Go barefoot?” Lisa scowled at the grimy sidewalk. A homeless man catcalled her from a partially collapsed tent. She hurried to catch up with Jamie. “I thought this was supposed to be a fancy party. Why hold it in the Park Blocks?”
“Because it’s very Portland chic to have fancy parties in shitty parts of town.”
“Did you bring band aids?” Lisa asked hopefully. “I think I’m getting a blister.”
“Of course,” said Jamie, as though offended Lisa had to ask. Still walking at a rapid pace, Jamie opened her purse, rooted around, and handed Lisa two bandages. “One for the back of each foot. I also have mints, antacids, aspirin, tampons, lip balm, tissues, sunglasses, gum, lipstick, condoms, concealer, a flashlight, and an emergency candy bar.”
“You’re a mobile drug store,” said Lisa, reaching for the chocolate.
Jamie slapped Lisa’s hand away. “Does this look like an emergency?”
“Yes, Jamie. Yes, it does.”
Jamie snapped her purse shut and glanced at her watch. “He’s expecting us at seven.”
Lisa rolled her eyes. “Nigel’s parties suck whether or not we show up.”
“True, but fuck Nigel, I’m doing this for the money,” said Jamie. “I want to find him before the party starts so we can get paid.”
The light changed at the corner of Burnside Street and Eighth Avenue, but Lisa didn’t budge. “Can’t we just rob a liquor store, then go home and binge watch something on Netflix?”
“That’s a super fun idea, Lisa, but no. We can’t afford Netflix.” Jamie grabbed Lisa’s hand and pulled her across the street. “I know we promised ourselves we’d never work another party, but rent’s due. I don’t want to have to ask my parents again.”
“I know,” said Lisa with a pang of guilt. The money she had inherited from her father covered her tuition and most of the rent, but not much else. A girl had to eat. She could ask her mother, but that option was infinitely worse than working at one of Nigel’s parties.
Lisa followed Jamie toward the stretch of green that made up the North Park Blocks. Usually the domain of homeless and meth heads, tonight the park had been transformed with white party tents, flower-laden tables, and thousands of tiny lights strung across towering Dutch elms.
Jamie made a beeline for a slim man in a pale blue linen suit, who stood talking with a bouncer near a silver and white balloon arch.
“Hey, Nigel. We made it,” said Jamie breathlessly.
“It’s about time,” Nigel said as he motioned to the bouncer to let Jamie and Lisa through. He looked them over with a critical eye. “What on earth are you wearing?” he asked Jamie.
Jamie was encased in a ridiculously short, shimmering green cocktail dress. She twirled, almost tripping in her strappy sandals. “It’s new. I ordered it on Bimbos-R-Us.”
“Wherever you got it, it’s perfect.” Nigel turned to Lisa and motioned for her to spin as well, but Lisa just crossed her arms over her gold sequined number and shook her head no. Nigel didn’t press the matter. “Now, girls, you both know the drill. It’s not about just standing around looking pretty.”
“We know,” said Jamie. “Be the first to dance, the first to karaoke, and don’t forget to talk to the socially inept about their hopes and dreams for the future.”
“And no drinking. If someone offers you one, dump it discreetly.” Nigel mimicked pouring out an imaginary cocktail behind his back. “Like so.”
Jamie groaned. “How are we supposed to tolerate this if we can’t drink?”
“If this is because I vomited on that guy’s shoes . . .” Lisa said, glaring at Nigel.
He glared back. “I’m not paying to replace another pair of suede wingtips.”
“Fine. No drinking,” said Jamie, giving Lisa a warning look.
Nigel smiled. “Thank you. And next time catch a ride over, and make sure it’s a car with air conditioning. You’re both all shiny. Go powder your noses.”
He tried to shoo them away, but Jamie stood her ground and held out her hand. “There’s still the matter of payment.”
“Of course, how could I forget?” He pulled a wallet out of his back pocket and counted out six one-hundred-dollar bills. He handed three to Jamie and three to Lisa. “Now go pretend to have fun,” he said, waving them off.
Lisa and Jamie headed across the party grounds, following signs for the ladies’ room. Other than staff, they appeared to be the only attendees.
“Where is everyone?” Lisa asked.
“The party is for some tech conference. Guests should start showing up soon. I assume it’ll be the usual bullshit,” said Jamie.
“Totes,” agreed Lisa.
They walked past waiters prepping hors d’oeuvres and stocking bars with liquor, beer, and wine. In tandem, tattooed hipsters readied trendy food trucks that would give the party that signature Portlandia vibe. Signs advertised culinary mash ups like the Korean Kabab, the Prussian Pierogi, and Double D Donuts.
Under the trees, the summer air felt cooler. The sky was still bright, just hinting toward twilight. For a moment, Lisa let herself pretend that she was an actual guest at the party, that she could relax and have fun.
“Does Patrick know where you are tonight?” asked Jamie.
The spell broke.
“Nope. And he’s not going to. He hates it when I work parties.” Lisa pulled her phone from her purse. There were three new messages, each with a tiny photo of Patrick’s face. She clicked. “Oh no.”
“Has he been arrested? Tell him we can’t cover his bail.”
“It’s so much worse,” Lisa said, handing Jamie her phone. “He got a tattoo.”
Jamie squinted at the photo, a close up of Patrick’s arm. “Does that say, ‘Lisa Forever’?”
Lisa nodded vigorously.
“That is amazing,” said Jamie. She started laughing, almost losing her breath. “This dress is too tight.”
“You’re not helping,” Lisa said. “Maybe it’s a joke.” She took the phone back and zoomed in on the photo. The tattoo looked fresh, the skin angry and sore. She suddenly felt nauseous. Tapping quickly, she texted back, ‘WOW’ with a red heart emoji, hoping it would be vague enough until she had a chance to fully absorb the latest expression of her boyfriend’s devotion.
“Lisa Forever,” sang Jamie, still laughing. “Lisa Forrreeeverrrrr.”
“Shut up,” Lisa said. “Anyway, he loves me. What’s wrong with that?”
“Maybe it’s time to look for some friends who aren’t from a school for troubled teens.”
“Um, hello,” Lisa said.
“My situation is completely different,” said Jamie. “I chose to attend the Lost Lake Academy.”
“After your juvenile court judge strongly suggested it,” Lisa said.
Jamie shrugged. “Regardless, I’m here to act as your emotional support animal. Whereas Patrick is a little bit confused and a lot fixated on you.”
“He’s not fixated,” Lisa said, her hands on her hips. “He’s just stuck. Anyway, you introduced us.”
“Sorry.”
“And maybe it really will be Lisa and Patrick forever,” Lisa said with a shrug. Even as she spoke the words aloud, she wanted to snatch them back. Patrick and Jamie had pulled her through some dark times at the Academy, but they were years beyond that now. Lisa and Jamie were in school, Lisa was working on a degree from the College of Art and Jamie studied political science at Portland State University. They had plans. But Patrick liked his job at the bike shop, and he seemed perfectly content sharing a dumpy apartment with three other guys. Lisa figured he would grow up someday, but she was losing patience with his inability to commit to anything other than her. She couldn’t solve all his problems. She had too many of her own.
“And if not forever, there’s always laser tattoo removal,” said Jamie with a smile.
As they walked past the row of food trucks, Lisa spotted the ladies’ room—a massive trailer that looked distinctly portable. “A port-a-potty? You have to be kidding.”
“Oh no, this is a Presidential Potty,” said Jamie with reverence.
“A what?”
“Presidential. My cousin rented one of these for her wedding. They’re super nice.”
“Whatever.” Careful in her high heels, Lisa followed Jamie up three steep steps to a steel door marked “Ladies.”
The interior was sparkling clean and quite luxurious with four bathroom stalls, all empty. Lisa shrugged and made herself comfortable in front of a large mirror. She’d overdone her makeup. Her eyes were lined with black pencil, and her sparkly gold eyeshadow matched the color of her strapless dress. Her lashes held a thick layer of mascara, and her pert lips were a deep pink. She should have plucked her eyebrows before leaving the apartment, and that blemish hadn’t quite cleared up, but it was nothing Jamie’s bag of tricks couldn’t fix. She picked through her friend’s purse and pulled out a stick of concealer.
Jamie stepped into a toilet stall and returned with two disposable seat covers. She handed one to Lisa.
“What am I supposed to do with this?” asked Lisa, holding the thin tissue with the tips of her fingers.
“Blot.”
“No.”
“Yes. See?” Jamie started patting the tissue against her skin, and like magic, her face went from shiny to matte. “Better than those fancy-ass blotters from Sephora. And they’re free.”
“I like free,” said Lisa, following her friend’s lead and pressing the tissue to her face. “So, what’s the plan?” she said, her voice slightly muffled.
“A few rounds of mingling, then assess the catering options.”
“What about the food trucks? Korean Kabab’s here,” said Lisa. She crumpled up her toilet seat cover and tossed it into the trash. “You know how much I love their kimchi burritos.”
“Your obsession with fermented vegetables is disturbing,” said Jamie.
“I blame your grandmother.”
“Grandma Kim does make the best Bibimbap this side of the Pacific,” said Jamie. “Okay, Korean Kabab it is. We need to keep up our strength. At nine, we hit the karaoke stage. We’ll do one together. I’m thinking we start strong with . . .”
“Not Journey,” interrupted Lisa, as she touched up her lipstick.
“You’re so good, though. You sound just like Steve Perry.”
“No. I’m singing ‘Rebel Girl.’ I don’t care if Nigel complains.”
“Are you sure we shouldn’t stick with something a little more conventional? You know, like the B-52s, Britney, even Bon Jovi.”
“It’s our duty to musically educate these tech bros.”
“Fine. Are you ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
They looked at each other’s reflections in the big mirror and practiced their smiles. “Don’t let me do anything stupid,” they said in unison, and laughed.