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Okay. So that was surreal.
So it WAS the money. That we’re out of it, I mean. That’s what Lana had meant when she’d said she knew.
And all she ended up wanting in exchange for her silence was to be invited to Grandmère’s party. The one she’s throwing to raise money for the Genovian olive farmers.
Seriously.
I was so shocked—I mean, I’d really expected Lana to ask me for something that would complicate my life a LOT more than a simple party invitation—that I was all, “Why would you want to go to THAT? I mean—do YOU want to meet Bob Dylan, too?”
Lana just looked at me like I’m stupid (so what else is new?) and went, “Um, no. But Colin Farrell is going to be there. He’s bidding on Ireland. Everyone knows that.”
Everyone except me, apparently.
But still. I pretended like I’d known. I went, “Oh. Right. Sure. Yeah. Okay.”
Then I said I’d make sure she got an invitation.
“TWO invitations,” Lana hissed, in a manner not dissimilar to the way Gollum went around hissing “My precious” in Lord of the Rings. “Trish wants to come, too.” Trisha Hayes is Lana’s main henchperson, the Igor to her Dr. Frankenstein. “Though if she thinks SHE’S getting Colin, she’s high.”
I didn’t comment on this apparent rift in their unconditional sisterly love for each other. Instead, I was all, “Um, yeah, okay, two invitations.”
But then, because I am incapable of keeping my mouth shut, I was like, “But, um, if you don’t mind my asking—how’d you hear? About the money, I mean?”
She made another face and went, “I looked up how much those stupid ‘cans and battles’ recycling bins cost online. Then I just did some math. And I knew you had to be broke.”
God. Lana is even more conniving than I ever gave her credit for. Conniving AND much better at math than I am.
Maybe she SHOULD have been president.
I probably should have just let her go at that point. I probably should have just been all, “Well, see ya.”
But I couldn’t, of course. Because that would have been too easy. Instead, I had to be all, “Um, Lana. Can I ask you a question?”
And she was like, “What?” with her eyes all narrowed.
I couldn’t believe the words that came out of my mouth next: “How do you, um. Party?”
Lana’s super–lip glossed mouth fell open at that one. “How do you WHAT?”
“You know,” I said. “Party. I mean, I know you go to a lot of, um, parties. So I was just wondering…like, what do you DO at them? How do you, you know. Party?”
Lana just shook her head, her stick-straight blond hair (she’s never had to worry about her hair forming an upside-down yield-sign shape) shimmering under the fluorescent lights.
“God,” she said. “You are such a dork.”
Since this was unchallengingly true, I didn’t say anything.
This was apparently the right move, since Lana continued, “You just show up—looking fantastic, of course. Then you grab a beer. If the music’s any good, you dance. If there’s a hot guy, you hook up. That’s it.”
I thought about this. “I don’t like beer,” I said.
But Lana just ignored me. “And you wear something sexy.” Her gaze flicked from my combat boots up to the top of my head, and she added, “Although for you, that might be a challenge.”
Then she sauntered off.
It can’t be that simple. Partying, I mean. You just go, drink, dance, and, um, hook up? This information does not help me at all. What do you do if they’re playing fast music? Are you supposed to dance fast? I look like I’m having a seizure when I dance fast.
And what are you supposed to do with this alleged beer while you’re dancing? Do you put it down on, like, a coffee table or something? Or do you hold it while you dance? If you’re dancing fast, won’t it spill?
