"What if I think your dad's cute, too?" Claudia asked after we rang the bell. "Wouldn't it be wrong?"
"And weirdly incestuous."
"Very Greek drama. Somebody'd have to poke their eyes out for sure. But who?"
That's when the Bar Wench opened the door. Awesome.
"Hello, ladies," she said. The Bar Wench was the same age as my dad, but her skin looked more sun-dried and weathered. She tried to hide that with thick foundation, but it pooled in the tiny cracks around her eyes, making the fissures more pronounced than they would have been otherwise. She wore her dyed black hair in a pixie cut that had probably been very sexy when she was in her early twenties, but now it just seemed mannish. She wasn't dressed yet—she wore slippers and a royal blue silk bathrobe.
With no small amount of bitterness, she told us she had arranged full-weekend sleepovers for both her boys, and she and Dad would be heading down the shore. They'd all be back late Sunday afternoon, and she expected to find the house in the same condition it was in right now. That said, she retreated upstairs. She never once attempted to make any kind of physical contact with me, and she never introduced herself to Claudia.
"She must know she's world-renowned as the Bar Wench," Claudia explained. "It's like being Mick Jagger; it's superfluous to introduce yourself."
An hour later, we'd unloaded both our cars and managed to get everything we needed into the fridge, when we heard my dad jogging down the stairs.
"Cair, baby? That you down there?"
" 'Cair, baby '?" Claudia whispered. "What is he, a lounge act?"
Pretty close. At least he looked the part in his white suit with the black silk shirt.
"Aha!" He pointed at Claudia. "The braids! You had those ten years ago. You are Claudia!"
"Did you really recognize the braids," Claudia asked, "or is it that you knew I was coming?"
"Little of each," Dad said. Then he beckoned for us to lean in close. "I left a surprise for you in the hall closet. Lise doesn't have to know." He put his fingers to his lips as the Bar Wench clip-clopped downstairs, wearing a pantsuit that clung a little too tightly to her middle.
"Have fun tomorrow," Dad said. "Make sure you tell people they can crash here if they're too drunk to drive."
"But downstairs. Everything needs to stay downstairs," the Bar Wench added. Dad laughed as he led her out of the house, urging her not to worry. The last thing we heard her mutter before the door closed was "...hate the thought of those kids getting into my underwear drawer..."
"I'm getting into her underwear drawer right now," I said.
"Totally. What do you think the surprise is?"
We ran to the closet. All the way in the back was a full keg on a small rolling dolly, and it had a note taped to it that said, "Have fun! Love, Dad."
"Oh my God, I kind of love Leonard Leonard," Claudia said.
"It's pretty cool," I agreed, even as I heard Mom's voice in my head railing over what kind of parent would possibly think it was okay to provide a keg of beer for an underage party.
Claudia and I stayed up until the wee hours of the morning prepping the house per Trista's guidelines. We put out tea candles; we strung miles of white twinkle lights; we put colored gels over bulbs. We made sure every room would have music, either a stereo playing CDs or a speaker dock hooked to an iPod. We tested every connection to make sure everything worked. We rolled the keg from the closet to the kitchen. We put tiki torches out on the massive back porch and made sure they were filled with fluid. We put out lighters so we wouldn't have to look for them when it was time to light the torches and candles. We put out extra chairs so people could hang outside and look at the lake beyond Dad's backyard. We pushed back furniture in the living room to create a dance area. We checked all the supplies in the bathrooms. We made a timeline and a checklist for everything we needed to do the next day: set out snacks, drinks, ice, cups, utensils, napkins; order pizzas; and of course get gorgeous.
By the time we were done, we were exhausted and starving. We didn't want to bust into the party food or get anything dirty by attempting to cook,