Olivia cleared her throat. “Mr. Vega? It’s sort of supposed to be a special occasion, so you might want to dress up a little bit.”
“What kind of special—”
“See you in an hour!” Ivy interrupted, and before her dad could say anything else, she waved him out the door with the backs of her hands like she was shooing a bat.
Ivy and Olivia were lighting the candles in the middle of the dining room table when the pipeorgan doorbell rang.
“Girls!” Mr. Vega’s voice called faintly from upstairs. “The door!”
Ivy was about to go answer it, but Olivia grabbed her arm. “Lesson of Love Number One: interaction is the key to attraction,” Olivia whispered.
“What does that mean?” Ivy asked.
The doorbell rang again. “He should get it,” Olivia said.
Good idea, thought Ivy. “DAD! CAN YOU GET THE DOOR, PLEASE?” she yelled. She snatched a black lacquer plate off the table. “WE HAVE OUR HANDS FULL OF PLATES DOWN HERE!”
A moment later, Ivy could hear the faint patter of her father descending the grand staircase.
Ivy and Olivia peeked around the corner into the foyer just as their father reached the bottom of the steps. His hair was slicked back, and he was wearing pin-striped black pants and a tailored white shirt under a gray blazer. Perfect! Ivy thought.
“Any woman would totally fall for him,” Olivia whispered.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Ivy’s father apologized as he opened the door. “Alice!” he exclaimed.
“It’s Charles, right?” Ivy heard. “Like the prince?”
Ivy’s father stood there, speechless.
Invite her in, Ivy pleaded silently.
“Please, come in,” her father said.
“Thanks!” Alice said and charged into the foyer. She was wearing an enormous crocheted sweater dress, black leggings, and silver leg warmers. On her head was a black faux-fur-lined trapper hat. She looks like a dancer in a Russian music video, Ivy thought.
“Creative outfit,” Olivia whispered hopefully.
Ivy’s father snapped his head in their direction like he’d heard. He locked Ivy in his gaze, and his eyes widened.
We’re staked! Ivy thought.
Rather than ducking out of sight, though, Olivia pushed past Ivy and marched into the foyer. “Hi, Alice!” She smiled. Ivy nervously hurried after her. “Thanks so much for helping out with our art project!”
Alice screwed up her lips. “I thought I was here for dinner.”
“You are,” Olivia said. “We had to create something special for someone else, so we’re making dinner for you and Mr. Vega!”
“That’s art?” Alice looked confused.
“That was my question exactly,” Ivy’s father said stiffly.
“I usually work in papier-mâché,” Alice admitted.
“It’s performance art,” said Ivy, pulling out the only explanation she had.
Alice’s eyes lit up. “Oh! I love performance art! Don’t you, Charlie?”
Charlie? thought Ivy. No one calls my dad Charlie.