"Exactly," she said, sinking another shot. "So I can't. But I had an idea: a big public way we could officially set you up as the new me."
"What's that?"
"The spring party." Trista put down the pool cue and plopped onto the couch. "Every year I throw a party after spring break. Everyone knows about it, but the actual invitation list is very selective. Big but selective. The party is epically CHIW—the kind of thing people talk about for months. If you really want to be me, this year you throw that party. I'll help, but we'll make sure everyone knows it's yours. Your magnet-tude will skyrocket."
I liked the idea a lot. I'd been wondering how we'd get everyone to see me as the new Supreme Populazzi, and this seemed like the perfect plan.
But the strategy had come from Trista, so I was suspicious.
"You really want to do this for me?" I asked.
"Of course not. But you know my secrets, so I need to keep you happy."
She was right. "Okay," I said. "Let's do it."
"Great. Where? Not your house. I've been to your house."
"What's wrong with my house?"
"It's fine ... for a house. But not for an epic party. And even if it were, would your parents get out of the way?"
No. My parents would never get out of the way for a party. They would in fact very much want to be in the way and policing every moment. Plus Trista was right: the house was nowhere near epic. I needed a spot like Trista's. Or Nate's.
Or my dad's.
I smiled. "I just might know the perfect place."
Chapter Thirty-Two
My dad and I had an interesting relationship. I had last seen him a year ago, and I had made him cry. We'd met on neutral territory: a Wendy's. He'd asked me to meet him at his house, but ever since I'd turned thirteen and he boycotted my bat mitzvah because I wouldn't let the Bar Wench get called up for an Aliyah, I had refused to set foot on his property.
I didn't hug my dad when I saw him last. I didn't even smile, which in my pre-Nate-training days was an effort for me. I simply sat across from him, perfectly straight-faced, dipping my fries in my Frosty and regaling him with every story I remembered from my childhood in which he'd let me down. All those times when I was three, four, five years old, totally in love with my daddy and waiting for him to pick me up for a scheduled visit. And waiting. And waiting. And waiting. Until he'd finally cancel.
I reminded him of my school plays in fourth and fifth grade. He'd come—but he'd been on the phone the whole time, bouncing in and out of the theater.
I reminded him of the times he had picked me up for our father-daughter visits only to run up to his computer the minute we got to his house, leaving me with the Bar Wench, who expected me to help her take care of her whiny sons.
I showed absolutely no emotion as I dragged him through the muck of Memory Lane, and I made him cry. I loved that I made him cry. It made me feel accomplished, powerful, and strong. It made me feel right.
Given that our last two annual visits had played out that way and given my vow never to set foot in his house, it was more than a touch hypocritical of me to try to have a party there. Then again, it fit perfectly with my new philosophy to keep my emotions at bay and do whatever was necessary to get what I wanted.
I described Dad's house to Trista. She thought it sounded perfect, but of course she knew I had to lay some groundwork before I asked to throw a party there. She suggested I use the two-week spring break to reconnect with him, then pop the party thing on him afterward. She also recommended I show her Dad's house so she could see if it was "magnetic" enough. I was pretty sure it was, but Trista's taste was dead-on, so I agreed. I called him at his office to make an appointment.
"Leonard Engineering," his secretary answered.
"Um, hi. Is Lenny there?" I asked.
Yes, my dad's name really is Leonard Leonard. I long suspected that this was the actual source of all his problems,