"Winter's Perfect Night"
"Winter's Perfect Night" is a fun and lighthearted LGBTQ+ young adult holiday novellette. It has typical high school embarassments, unrequited crushes, band nerds, and puppies!! all of which occurs on the day (and night) of THE party of the season. This story was tremendously fun to write and even though I wrote it more than a year ago, I still smile when I think about Katie and Olivia's love story.
WINTER’S PERFECT NIGHT
by Kelly Washington
Katie
On the day of the biggest party of the year, which occurred on the Friday night before the two-week holiday break, my mom scheduled me to have my wisdom teeth pulled. She was perpetually shitty like that.
I was pretty much out of it, which meant I was none-the-wiser for what was about to happen, but wisdom-teeth-surgery-pain-be-damned, I wasn’t going to miss school, not if it meant I could somehow obtain a coveted invitation to Jocelyn Moore’s party.
My plan was to ask Olivia Brewster to go with me. I even had a handwritten, calligraphy-style note ready to give to her.
However, receiving an invitation was a long shot. Jocelyn and I weren’t exactly in the same social group. In fact, in high school terms, we weren’t even the same species.
Paul DeChantis, my best friend, summarized as much as we left fourth period algebra.
“The only way you’re going to get an invitation, Katie,” Paul said as we closed our lockers and observed our fellow students, “is to steal one.”
Paul’s head was shaved on one side and the other side, which had longer hair that went just past his ears, was dyed bright purple. He wore a black puffer coat, a red plaid shirt, tight leather pants, and faded blue converse hightops.
Best friends and neighbors since the second grade, we did everything together. Gymnastics (until he broke his ankle); painting (until we realized I was colorblind); junior cooking school (we both liked that so much our parents jointly decided to unenroll us when we kept baking and then eating cupcakes everyday); and music lessons, which continued to this day.
We were in the Westwood High School marching band. Paul, a pretty rad drummer at school but also in his own band, held sticks in his hand, twirling them, and I played the flute, which I did not twirl since it was tucked inside its heavily padded, but compact, black case. The note I had written for Olivia was inside the case where no one would ever think to look. Non-band students had this weird fear that touching an instrument would make them instantly unpopular.
In the clustered hallway, we witnessed typical behavior: freshmen rushing to class, upper classmen hanging out, socialites and gamers on their phones, teachers encourage-yelling at everyone to get to class before the bell, and then, in the corner, near the restrooms and water fountains and a poster that read, “Plagiarism isn’t worth it!” my eyes focused on three seniors holding neon green note cards. Each year the invitations were a different color.
“Like, beat them up and steal their invitations?” I asked.
Paul looked me up and down. “You’re the size of a store brand pop-tart, Katie, and I just got this nose ring, so no. Besides, I have band practice tonight.”
I was about to rib him about his bandmate and cool-as-hell guitarist and singer, Abbi, and how he should finally ask her out, but I stopped myself as I registered the gleeful (and snobby) expressions on those students’ faces.
Popular students were the worst. Jocelyn, who was popular, pretty and rich, but also sadly predicable, was selective in who received an invitation to her annual Winter’s Perfect Night party. It was held at her parents’ mansion and decked to the nines with sparkly decorations, food for miles, a famous DJ, a professional photographer, a dance floor, a game room, an indoor bowling alley, an indoor swimming pool, and a mini-movie theater. Her mom owned a gaming company and her dad was Virginia’s top breeder of Golden Retrievers. It was like a private Dave & Busters with puppies.
“How about this,” I amended as I pulled my now incessantly buzzing phone from my coat pocket, “we wait for them to separate and jump one of them?”
Paul felt my forehead. “Feeling violent today? You seem pretty adamant on getting an invitation for yourself. But I wonder who you’d like to take? A certain person named Oli—”
“Oh, my God,” I said, cutting him off, but my response wasn’t on what he was about to say.
Everyone in school got the same text and, as I clicked on a video labeled, “Gibberish Flute Girl,” it turned out to be a video of me.
I already felt like crap due to having my wisdom teeth pulled this morning, but this was ten times worse. Paul’s phone buzzed too, and as he stood beside me, his gaze alternated between my screen and his.
He looked panic stricken. I noticed every other student stop what they were doing and look at their phones.
I turned up the volume and then wished I hadn’t.
“Da fwwwuuute is aaaa beeeauuuutiful innnnnnstruuument, riiiight?” I was in the back of my mom’s SUV, leaning sideways, heavy lidded, with tufts of cotton in my cheeks and drooling, like a messy-haired, drunk person who suddenly decided to eat a couch cushion. “Woooonndder ifffff Ooooffffivvvva would wiiiike it. Gooonnnnnaaaa ask herrrrrr tooooo Jofowin’s parrrrtyyyy.”
“Who is that?” another person asked as they tried to identify the dweeb from the video. “Like, she looks so familiar.”
Someone snickered and said, “Jofowin! I can’t wait to tell Jocelyn.”
Paul got right in my face as I put my phone in my backpack, his hands braced against my shoulders. “Look at me!” His breath smelled like pizza hot pockets. “The video is barely understandable, Katie, and, as much as it pains me to say this, we’re nobodies around here. Most don’t know you and I doubt they’ll guess who you’re talking about.”
But it didn’t matter because it was still a video of me. My asshole mom posted a video about me, and everyone was watching it, and, oh by the way, Paul was wrong about one thing because the girl right next to us said, “Olivia, as in Olivia Brewster?”
I was going to be sick. “I need to go drown myself in a toilet,” I said in a monotone voice. My backpack and my flute made a loud clunk and clatter as I dropped them to the floor.
My legs felt as stiff as wood as I started walking toward the restroom. I caught sounds from the video in various stages of play as I made my way down the hall. The goal was to not draw attention to myself. However, the object of my affection walked out of the girl’s bathroom just as I was about to go in.
There was a slight cringe on Olivia’s face. She knew me. We sat next to each other freshman year in band. We were sorta-friends. She played the flute, too. Or used to. She gave it up to join the volleyball team.
I wasn’t sure if she’d seen the video or not and I wasn’t about to stop and chit-chat to find out. She looked like she’d just finished volleyball practice. Her blonde hair, which was up in a messy bun, was slightly damp around the edges and her face was pink with exertion. She wore a turquoise green tunic dress with black tights and brown ankle boots.
Olivia looked like she was going to say something, but I couldn’t stomach the questions building in her eyes. I turned on my heel, made my way to the school’s main entrance, and, Paul following me, walked right out.
If I had been thinking straight, though I don’t know who could’ve blamed me for my reaction, I would have realized that in that leaving behind the flute, I had left behind my note for Olivia.
But, like I said, I wasn’t thinking straight.
I had just got off the phone with my dad (he was reminding me for the umpteenth time that it was his “date night” with my new stepmom and that I had to watch my baby sister tonight) when I learned about the video.
My best friend Stephanie and I were in the girls’ bathroom when she said, “Holy shit, look at this, Olivia,” and shoved her phone in my face. “Can’t make heads or tales of what she’s saying but wow, sucks to be her.”
Right away I felt bad for Katie. I knew her from freshman year. She was always first chair for the flute section and several things about her stood out: she was not only a good player, but she sort of glowed when she played, like she felt the music, and for the most part, she was shy. But I remembered a few times where she said or did something funny with her friend Paul and I realized she had a wicked sense of humor.
She was fun to talk to and when the marching band went out of town to play at Westwood High’s football games, we’d often sit together on the bus, passing the time by eating handfuls of skittles and trading gossip. But I joined the volleyball team during my sophomore year and I didn’t have time for both activities, so I dropped band and my parents sold my flute.
If Katie was disappointed when we stopped hanging out, she never said a word. We were in various classes together here and there, and we’d say hi in the hallways, but for the greater part of our junior and senior years we didn’t have much interaction other than the occasional bumping into one another. She tended to seem flustered and at a loss for words, but I took that as shyness.
In the video, I could make out the words flute, Jocelyn, and Olivia. It’d be conceited of me to think she was referring to me in that video. I wasn’t the only Olivia in school.
“Looks like she just had her wisdom teeth pulled,” I said, checking my hair and make-up in the mirror. “I doubt she even knows what she’s saying.”
I shrugged even though I was petrified on the inside. Petrified everyone would think she did mean me. Petrified to examine my own feelings about it, too.
Stephanie nodded. “Still, I’d be mortified and never show my face again. Anyway, did you get an invitation to Jocelyn’s party?”
“Yeah. But I can’t go. Gotta watch Clara-Jane tonight. You can have mine, if you want.”
For as much as everyone fought over the privilege to go to one of Jocelyn’s parties, especially this one, her Winter’s Perfect Night party, I wasn’t interested in going to a party where the main objective was to show off their wealth.
She smiled. “Got mine this morning in Study Hall. I swear, Jocelyn’s wearing a real-life, cedar-scented garland necklace around her neck today. Smells like a fricking Christmas tree. Still, I hear she got DJ SnowRaven. That alone is worth the price of admission.”
“Price of admission?”
“Kissing Jocelyn’s cedar-scented ass!”
Laughing, I opened the bathroom door, ready to step into the hallway, when Katie nearly smacked right into me. With her eyes widened and a startled expression on her ashen face, she looked about ready to die. Her dark hair was pulled back into a sleek ponytail and she was dressed for the cold December weather—a cream-colored arctic bomber jacket, a chunky orange sweater than came to the tops of her knees, thick black leggings, and furry snow boots that laced up mid-calf. It was a cute look but it felt like something was missing.
I wanted to say something to put her at ease, truly I did, but almost instantly she backed up and, without uttering a single syllable, she turned and fled.
The bell rang just as Stephanie and I made it to our history class when I noticed a yellow backpack and a flute case on the floor next to the lockers. That’s what was missing. Katie didn’t have either of those things on her.
Stephanie slipped around me and found her seat but the teacher, seeing me halt at the door, said, “Any time you’re ready, Miss Brewster. Allow your legs to guide the rest of you to your seat.”
I muttered a, “Sorry, I dropped something,” and retrieved both items before scurrying into the classroom.
Looking at the instrument case in my hand, Stephanie whispered, “Since when do you play the, ah—” she searched her brain for any instrument name but came up short.
“It’s a flute,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I know who it belongs to. I’ll hold onto it until after school.”
Stephanie tilted her head. “Wait, did you say a flute? Like, that dork in the video was talking about a flute! Do you think—”
“Miss Warburton,” the teacher said in a loud tone from the front of the room, which made Stephanie sit up straight. “Perhaps you’ve had too many volleyballs to the head but would you please be quiet long enough for me to get through the lesson? Thank you. Now, for everyone who wants to pass, turn to page 209.”
The rest of the class passed in the same fashion (i.e., the teacher sarcastically addressing students) and when the final bell rang, and as I waited out in the cold for my bus, my dad texted me again, reminding me about my babysitting duties tonight.
Given that I was carrying my own backpack, Katie’s backpack, and her flute, my hands were full. I was a bit flustered when I acknowledged his text.
Ever since my parents divorced and my dad married his executive assistant, Mallory (don’t ask the obvious question), I’ve felt like a stranger in my own household. After twenty-odd years of marriage, my mom collected a monthly alimony check and has been finding herself in Europe ever since, so I stayed with my dad in Westwood, Virginia. My baby sister, Clara-Jane, was two-years-old and as cute as a button.
Mallory was a decent person who was smart enough not to act like my mom or my best friend, but I sensed she was feeling insecure in her marriage because they had a lot of date nights.
Most Friday or Saturday nights found me sitting at home, entertain-teaching my toddler sister, feeding her dinner, and then putting her to bed, long before my dad and Mallory crept in, in the wee hours of the morning.
Unfortunately, this meant I didn’t have much of a social life. Even if Katie wanted to invite me to Jocelyn’s (Jofowin, haha!) party, there was no way I could go.
I don’t think I was much of a friend to Katie as I drove her home, even though she didn’t want me to. She insisted on walking the three miles when she couldn’t find her keys (left in her backpack). Then she tried to tell me how she’d been meaning to take up jogging again and that there was no time like the present. I wanted to laugh at that but dared not to. Katie had never willingly jogged a day in her life.
She wasn’t very thankful when I reminded her that I lived literally next door to her house and that it would not be “out of my way” to take her home. Thing was, I’d been meaning to talk to her about something, namely our college admission applications for NYU. I told her I applied early, like her, and any day now we were waiting on our letters. It’d be pretty obvious when she got hers and I got nothing.
But now was not that moment. I’d have to wait until her letter came in and then fess up.
She wanted to be alone, that much was obvious, but I wasn’t about to hang back and watch her run in snow boots. I didn’t tell her this. She’d just accuse me of being my mom, which would be true. Last year, Katie made fun of me when I gladly accepted my mom’s ancient minivan as my own car. How else was I going to lug around a drum set?
To fill the silence, I told her about the songs we were working on and how Abbi was writing a new piece, an epic ballad, which was still untitled. Abbi was waiting for inspiration.
“So, about today, do you want to talk about it?” I asked, changing the topic.
Katie said nothing for a very long time. Then, as we pulled up into my driveway, she said, “I may need to borrow your shovel later on.”
“There’s no way you’re gonna be able to dig deep enough into the frozen ground to bury your mother. Not saying she doesn’t deserve it for the stunt she pulled, but we need to keep a cool head in drastic times like these.”
“A jury might acquit me.”
“Now you’re dreaming,” I said. “I’ll call you after practice. Maybe we can find a way to crash Jocelyn’s party.”
She smacked her forehead.
“I’m so stupid! The note! I left it in the flute case.” Katie grabbed my hand. She was trembling and her face was splotchy. “What if someone finds it? My entire life will be ruined.”
“No, it won’t,” I said. “You go home and I’ll drive back to school, get it and your backpack. No one will ever know.”
Reluctantly, Katie got out of the minivan and then some surge of anger must have hit her because she marched up the steps to her front door, rushed in, and then slammed it behind her. The curtains on either side of the door billowed out before settling back into place.
Without missing a beat, I returned to school and searched up and down each hallway, and even checked with the administrative office, several teachers, and the head janitor, but there was no sign of Katie’s backpack or her flute as the school emptied out for the two week break. The band hall was locked up, so I couldn’t peek inside, but I didn’t think it would be in there. The band hall had been locked up since before lunch.
I wasn’t ready to give up, and I certainly didn’t want to give Katie bad news, but I didn’t know where else to look. Someone had it. My only hope was that they wouldn’t go snooping inside the flute case.
So instead of knocking on Katie’s door when I got home, I grabbed my band gear from the garage and speed away to meet Abbi.
Abbi, who was a junior at an all-girl’s catholic school, lived one town over. Her uncle, a former jazz singer, let us practice in the storage room (which was soundproof) of his grocery store. Everything about Abbi seemed effortless and cool. From the way she dressed (ripped jeans, neon tops, combat boots), to the way she sang (easily four octaves, but she could sing anything from rock to the blues to gospel to pop), to her other musical abilities (she could play the piano, too), to the way she just didn’t give a damn about anyone’s opinion.
Abbi Booth was confident, gorgeous, and talented. It was no wonder that I was halfway in love with her while knowing that I had practically zero chance of catching her interest.
As we waited for Seth, our bassist, I told Abbi about the day’s events. She listened without interruption as she inspected the cords between the mic and the amplifier, then, stopping to look at me, she said, “Or, this might turn out to be the best thing that ever happened to your friend.”
Did I mention Abbi was also wise beyond her sixteen years?
Once Seth showed up the conversation ended as we rehearsed our entire playlist; it was a two-hour set that included popular covers sprinkled with a couple of our band’s original songs, to include Abbi’s ballad.
It was an amazing song. All it needed was the right title and the right audience.
The day was not going as I had expected. This was an important day—my entire reputation hung on this one party alone. Did it matter than I had been planning it since July? No. Because no one could follow the simplest of instructions.
My fruit smoothie was lumpy this morning and it had too much spinach. My personal dry cleaning assistant pressed the wrong dress (again) so I guess I was going to have to fire her. And my festive garland necklace ended up giving me hives around the back of my neck.
How was I supposed to know I was sensitive to cedar?
The invitations were supposed to be cucumber-green, not neon green. I put out a little Instagram story about my disappointment, so I wouldn’t be surprised if that dumb printing shop—Boutique Graphics—went out of business within a month.
The decorations in the grand foyer looked great when I left for school, the DJ was already setting up her platform, and the three sets of caterers I hired for the event were on their way to start laying out tables and smaller decorations. The food wouldn’t get laid out until after school.
But, as the world knows, Jocelyn Moore is nothing if not someone who perseveres in the face of adversity. There was one event that spoiled everything: that imbecile of a girl blubbering about a flute, someone named “Olivia” (maybe, my therapist wasn’t sure, either) and then me, whom she pronounced as Jofowin.
It was obviously some cruel joke because I refused to entertain the masses.
Jofowin! It wasn’t even close to Jocelyn.
As soon as I figured out who she was, that girl was going to regret she ever thought about wanting to come to one of my parties.
I wasn’t kidding about the damn shovel because when I saw my mom’s face, I was completely ready to murder her with my bare hands.
She was in her office talking to a prospective client on the speakerphone. She gave me a quick smile before she returned to her occupation at hand. My mom was a realtor and it was her business to know everything about her clients. She’d sold houses to a lot of Westwood families, which meant she knew a lot about everyone. Their financials. What their home-life was like. Who was divorcing whom. She knew that shit long before the neighbors did because the “we’re-maybe-thinking-about-a-divorce” couple first came to her to find out the value of their home.
The holiday season was a slow one for buying and selling houses, so I had my doubts that the client on the phone would morph into an actual closing contract, which was why I had no qualms in what I was about to do.
“I’m busy, honey,” she mouthed as the man rambled on about the size of his preferred bathroom.
Marching forward, I disconnected her phone call. She didn’t immediately object because she knew I was upset and she knew why.
“How dare you video me and then post it to YouTube?”
My mom stood. “Katie, what’s the harm? No one got hurt and it was funny. Even you must admit that.”
The rage in me boiled over. How was I related to someone who couldn’t understand how something like this would destroy me?
“You hurt me! It wasn’t funny! I have never been more humiliated in my life, Mom. Everyone at school has seen the video. Are you happy? You ruined my life.”
She folded her arms across her chest, refusing to back down. “Don’t be so melodramatic. It was a silly video. So what? Tomorrow all the kids will be laughing at something else and you’ll be forgotten.”
“Do you think Olivia will forget? Do you think she’ll want to be friends with me after that?”
“Is that what you were saying? Your dad and I couldn’t figure it out. He laughed for a solid ten min—” Mom stopped, her eyes narrowing as she connected a few dots. “Who is Olivia?”
My heart thumped sporadically and I felt hot all over. “None of your goddamn business.”
Sweeping from the room, I slammed the door behind me, went upstairs, locked myself inside my bedroom, jumped into bed, and screamed into my pillow.
Dad and Mallory couldn’t get out of the house fast enough. They were dressed in formal attire and headed to Washington D.C., which was a solid hour’s drive away, to watch The Nutcracker at The Kennedy Center. Thankfully, they left me the use of Mallory’s Camry, so after they left and after I gave Clara-Jane a snack, I loaded her into the car seat and drove around Westwood, trying to find Katie’s house.
But I didn’t know where she lived and after thirty or forty minutes it got dark, Clara-Jane got fussy, so I drove home.
“E for Effort, right?” I asked as I looked at her in the rearview mirror.
Once back inside our house, Clara-Jane seemed curious about the flute case, so I started telling her about it and how I used to play it.
“Gaaaa,” Clara-Jane said in response, clapping. She was in her bouncy chair, bouncing up and down, her silky red-blonde curls bouncing with the movement.
“Exactly so, CJ. The flute is a silver-tone instrument. Shall I demonstrate?”
“Gaaaa,” Clara-Jane said with even more enthusiasm.
“Well, I cannot disagree with you there.” I opened the case. There was a folded piece of paper on top, which I laid aside, and I deftly fitted the three parts of the flute together. Placing my fingers over the right keys, I lifted the instrument sideways, and placed my lips just before the opening in the mouthpiece. “I’m a bit rusty, CJ, but here goes…”
I played a few scales before butchering a flat rendition of “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.” I let her gently touch the instrument, as well as blow spittle around the mouthpiece, but then she got moody when I disassembled it and put it back in the case.
“Errrrr,” Clara-Jane growled at me but I was able to sooth her building temper with dry cereal accented with a few marshmallow pieces.
Picking up the case, I forgot about the folded piece of paper until I nearly stepped on it.
I swear I had every intention of putting it back. I never intended to read it.
But it was slightly open and I saw that it had very pretty scrolling words on it, like fancy font, and I wondered if Katie was an artist like she was a musician.
Flipping it open, my breath caught as I digested Katie’s note.
Abbi
It might have been thirty-five degrees outside, but it was sweltering in my uncle’s grocery store storage room as we packed up our gear. Paul was sweaty after drumming for two hours. His one-sided purple hair was wet and tucked behind an ear while his t-shirt and black leather pants clung to his skinny frame.
He’d freeze solid the second he walked outside to load his electric drumkit into the back of the minivan. We had a lead on a possible paying gig tonight, so we needed to get locked and loaded asap.
Yes, Paul was a seriously good drummer, but someone needed to feed that boy—just wasn’t sure if that someone was me. I’d been thinking about it for a month or two, but in my family, feeding someone had about the same proclamation as going steady, and I didn’t know if I wanted the headache of getting involved with a bandmate, especially one who was graduating at the end of the year and then, presumably, headed off to college.
The chemistry was there, no doubt, even Seth, who could be a bit dimwitted, but in that lovable-guy-who-sported-a-man bun-but-really-shouldn’t sort of way, could see it because one day the other week he asked me when Paul and I were going to get our “act together” and he wasn’t talking about our musical act. I told him he’d do well to keep his mind on sick bass drops and getting us paying jobs.
Seth was on his phone, talking to a cousin about that possible gig tonight, as I threw on my wool coat to take out my mic case and the assortment of cables for the keyboard when Paul said, “Hey Abbi, I’ll help.”
He grabbed up a few things and together the cold air blasted our faces.
“Do you think Seth can get us that gig tonight?” I asked, then sputtered when I noticed that Paul’s beat-up minivan was decked out in festive green and red lights that blinked on and off every few seconds. “What in white people’s hell is this?”
Standing on the loading doc, Paul laughed, which produced white puffs of air. “Billie was in the holiday spirit.” Billie was the name of his minivan. “And, say what you will about Seth, he’s a decent guy and he’s got connections.”
“Must be nice to have money, right?” I shook my head, thinking about Seth’s humongous house up in One Hundred Acre Oaks, a gated community where all the wealthy people in the county lived.
“He doesn’t act like it, though.” Paul was solidly in the middle class, so he wouldn’t see things the way I did, but he wasn’t wrong: Seth didn’t act like a spoiled rich kid.
As it snowed, we packed up the back of his minivan as Seth worked some manager magic on the phone. “Great news,” Seth said in his Virginia-twang as we all jumped into the minivan. “Abbi and the Boys is scheduled to play tonight from seven to nine at the Turtle Cove Bar & Grill for three hundred dollars.”
My eyes went wide. With my share, I could finally afford to buy a new Shure SM58 dynamic handheld microphone.
Whooping and hollering, with the festive lights flickering around our heads, Paul sent off a quick text to Katie before kicking the car in gear.
“Thank your cousin for us, Seth,” I said from the passenger seat.
“You’ll be able to do so yourself. She works next door at Boutique Graphics.”
Olivia
Clara-Jane’s grubby little fingers tried to grab for Katie’s note and I didn’t blame her. The note’s lettering, which was pretty, was exquisitely hand drawn in flowing calligraphy. It wasn’t a long note, but it was clear and to the point, and it made my heart crash against my chest.
Katie Harris had had a crush on me since Freshman year. Would I like to go with her to Jocelyn’s party? But, if I couldn’t go to the party, would I go out on a date with her some other time?
“What should I do, CJ?” I asked my baby sister, who sat in her high chair. A Lucky Charms marshmallow piece was stuck to her cheek. “Katie wrote her phone number, too. Two numbers, in fact,” I said with a smile. She wasn’t taking any chances at missing my phone call.
“Gaaa,” Clara-Jane answered after I gave her a chubby board book (each page had a different texture) to flip through.
“Yes, I see what you mean. Calling is the right thing to do.”
It was already seven o’clock. Jocelyn’s party didn’t start until seven-thirty. And it would be mean if I didn’t respond, that way she’d still have time to decide whether or not to go to the party with her friends.
Even if I wanted to go, and this wasn’t me even analyzing how I felt about Katie, I still couldn’t go to a party with a two-year-old in my arms.
With my heart in my throat, I dialed the first number, but almost instantly Katie’s backpack started to vibrate and ring (it was the chorus of a popular song), which both startled and delighted Clara-Jane.
I wanted to laugh. Katie’s cell phone was in her bag.
So I tried the second number and after the third ring someone picked up and a female voice said, “Harris residence.”
It wasn’t Katie, but her mom.
“Um, Mrs. Harris,” I said, stuttering. “Is Katie there?”
“Sorry sweetie, she’s not feeling well.”
Well hell, I couldn’t just leave my message with her mom. I had no clue what type of relationship Katie had with her parents.
Then my eyes arrested on Katie’s flute and a plan formed in my head.
“Katie left her flute and backpack at school today and I was wondering if I could swing by to drop them off?”
To my relief, Mrs. Harris said that I could and she gave me their address before disconnecting the call.
Bundling up Clara-Jane, I drove to Katie’s house hoping I’d get to see her, yet praying I wouldn’t. I’d never felt so conflicted in my life.
With my sister on my hip, I knocked on Katie’s front door, and when Mrs. Harris opened it, she did a double take as she looked at me and then at Clara-Jane.
“What a cute… daughter,” she said. I wanted to correct her, but figured it really didn’t matter.
“I’m Olivia and this is Clara-Jane.”
Her mom lifted an eyebrow before giving me a hard stare, then, “Like I said on the phone, Katie’s not feeling well, but I’ll make sure she gets her things.”
There was nothing left to say or do, so I left and went home.
Without my phone, it felt like I was stranded on an island. I had no way to communicate with Paul. I didn’t even know if he found my stuff at school and by now, as I looked at the time, he was already with Abbi at band practice.
I felt betrayed but in his defense I basically told him to bug off.
Not only was I going to miss the biggest party of the year, my stomach was in knots over not knowing what people were saying about me. I’d rather know than be in the dark. What was Olivia thinking? I cringed at the memory of her expression when I ran into her at school.
No doubt she thought I was a loser.
“Sweetie,” my mom called from the other side of my door. “Can I come in?”
I was sitting at my desk, doodling Olivia’s name in a flowy font.
“Go. Away. I mean it.”
She opened the door anyway. “I’m sure you do but I wanted to find out if you were hungry and to give you your stuff.”
“My stuff?” I swiveled and was thunderstruck to see that she was holding my yellow backpack in one hand and my flute in the other. Both were slightly damp due to it snowing outside. “How on earth?”
“Your friend dropped it off.” She placed both items on my unmade bed. “Anyway, I ordered pizza and it should be here in—”
“Why didn’t you let Paul come upstairs? I can’t believe you’re keeping my friends from seeing me.” I pointed at all the pictures of Paul and me on my desk mirror.
My mom looked somewhat amused but then she saw something that gave her pause. Turning, I realized she spotted the name “Olivia” written over and over again on a large sheet of paper.
I’m sure my face turned red and I’m sure she could feel the anger of discovery radiating from my every pore, but I stood my ground and dared her—dared her—to say something negative.
The silence nearly undid me.
I could see her taking measured breaths. There was concern, calculation, worry in her eyes.
Did she know? Had she always known?
“It wasn’t Paul. It was Olivia and her daughter, Clara-Jane.”
I nearly passed out. “Olivia was here?”
“Yes, just a few moments ago.” Running to my window, I looked at the driveway. It was empty except for the SUV. Then it dawned on me that Olivia had had the flute case. Did she open it? “She didn’t stay, Katie. The baby looked ready for bed.”
“Clara-Jane is her sister.” I could see her digesting this information. “Her dad remarried two years ago.”
“Malcolm Brewster? I forgot the scandal of his leaving his wife to marry his secretary.”
“They’re not called secretaries anymore, jeez Mom.”
She nodded. “Right, right, sorry. At any rate, I sold them their new house. If you want to take the SUV, I’ll tell you where she lives.”
That stopped me short.
“Y-you’d do that?”
That’s when I knew she knew, that she was okay with it, and that’s when I started balling.
She pulled me into her arms. “Absolutely, honey.”
Halfway through our set I saw a return text from Katie. How on earth she got her stuff back was beyond me, but she texted how she was on her way to see us play.
The Turtle Cove Bar & Grill was moderately full and everyone seemed to be digging our music. Abbi’s voice was in prime form and some of the girls, who were near the front, were enamored with Seth and his man bun.
But then something weird started happening. Everyone who came into the bar & grill was carrying very recognizable neon green invitation cards. Like, every single person—adults, kids and everyone in-between. A girl was passing them out, a girl that Seth appeared to know because he waved at her.
That must be his cousin, but why was she handing out Jocelyn’s invitation to the masses?
I had just put Clara-Jane to bed and was eating cold cereal and watching her green-ish ghostly form on the baby monitor when my phone chimed. I assumed it would be my dad (making sure I hadn’t burned down the house), but it was from an unknown sender.
Olivia? It’s Katie. Thanks for dropping off my stuff.
At first I couldn’t figure out how she got my cell phone number, but then I remembered I called her cell phone earlier. She probably figured it was me.
I wrote back: No problem. Are you okay? I saw the video.
It took her a while to respond to that.
I’m working toward forgiving my mom, but yes, I’m OK. I’m sorry about what I said on the video. In my defense I don’t even remember saying it.
My heart lurched when I read her last text. She was trying to save face. However, Katie didn’t know that I saw her note.
I sent: Yeah, you were completely out of it. It’s not a big deal. Promise.
She wrote back. Cool. Anyway, headed out to see Paul’s band perform. Have a nice winter break.
I sent her a smiley face and, Have fun!
Somehow, I felt cheated in the text exchange, like, I had wanted more but didn’t know what more meant.
The Moore Mansion, which was up on a hill, was lit-up and magnificent-looking from the gates of One Hundred Acres Oaks’ entrance. There was an ever-steady flow of cars coming and going. The valet parking attendants were keeping everything moving as my guests arrived.
My parents, who agreed to stay in the north wing of the estate, left me to my own devices as my personal assistant, following close on my heels, took notes. I was wearing a glittery gown that had been crafted just for me. It had three hundred thousand Swarovski Crystals sewn into it.
“It appears to be the beginning of another successful party, Miss Jocelyn,” my assistant cooed in his British accent. “I believe you have outdone yourself even from last year’s party.”
We were on the veranda, which had been cleared of snow, and I turned on him as I inspected my perfectly manicured nails. “Colin, are you indicating that last year’s party was a failure?”
He quickly produced a horrified expression and mumbled a “No” and we continued throughout the first floor. DJ SnowRaven had a captive audience. Gamers were huddled in the gaming suite while movie buffs got an early preview of Spielberg’s newest film.
It was only nine-thirty and everyone appeared to be enjoying the food and decorations—as they should. In the corner, I spotted a group of football players along with their girlfriends, and one of them, who spotted me, yelled, “Great party, Jofowin!”
Everyone laughed.
“Call security and have them thrown out, Colin.” He complied and within a few moments a dozen or so people were escorted from the premises. “And remind the bouncer to only admit guests with the proper invitation.”
My mom did give me Olivia’s address but I wasn’t a stalker so instead I went to see Abbi and the Boys play, and got there as they played their last song, which I believed was Abbi’s epic ballad. I noticed as she sang it, she was looking at Paul.
As soon as the song ended, a cheerful girl in her early twenties rushed up to me to give me a neon-green card. I recognized it for what it was. She had a large stack of them in her hands.
She was wearing a yellow and purple shirt that read Boutique Graphics.
“Are you a friend of Jocelyn’s?” I asked as I finally held a coveted invitation in my hands.
“Of course not,” she said with a bright smile. “But she trashed my business on Instagram because of the color of the invitations. So I printed a thousand more and began handing them out to everyone I saw. Want a few extras?”
She shoved a handful at me and continued to dole out the hot invitations.
A few minutes later Paul, Abbi, and Seth caught up with me and I apologized for not arriving early enough to witness the entire play list.
“You’ll hear it soon,” Abbi said as she nudged Paul. His reaction was priceless; I’d never seen him look so besotted.
I held up the invitations. “So,” I said with a gleam in my eye, “anybody in the mood for fancy food?”
Seth gave me a wicked grin. If I wasn’t mistaken, Paul must have told them about the video. Strangely, I wasn’t as embarrassed as I thought I’d be.
“I think we have a party to crash,” Paul said.
Perhaps it wasn’t such a bad thing that Seth lived in One Hundred Acre Oaks because, as we got to the visitor gate, which was backed up with a long line of cars, Seth redirected us to the backside of the community, which had a side gate for homeowners.
As I looked out the window, which kept fogging up, some of these houses were as tall and as wide as apartment buildings, and one of them resembled a snow-covered castle—a goddamn castle! I was going to say something but I kept my mouth shut.
“I live across from the Moores,” Seth said sheepishly from the backseat. “So we can just park there and walk in easy-peasy.”
“Damn, Seth,” Katie said, whistling, as she glanced between Seth’s house and her phone.
We parked and walked up the massive driveway and presented our authentic invitation cards to the two guards barricading the door.
The guard inspected us. It was quite clear that we weren’t who the hostess was expecting but we had the golden ticket.
“Boss lady said only to admit those with invitations,” the guard said to other guard, who nodded in agreement, and let us inside.
The house was so large and so opulent that it felt like a showroom instead of an actual home. Whoever lived here wasn’t happy, of that I was sure.
We got there just as the “mass of unwashed” showed up and the mansion went from being immaculate-looking to a chaotic environment. Some went for the food. Others went for valuables. And it wasn’t long before the hostess, who was standing on the staircase and wearing a dress that ricocheted every light source within the room, had a temper tantrum.
Stephanie FaceTimed me and told me I had to get to Jocelyn’s house asap.
“It’s mayhem,” she said, laughing. “DJ SnowRaven just stormed out as hundreds of people stampeded the place.”
She reversed the camera to show me. Jocelyn was on a grand staircase and screeching for everyone to Leave Right Now.
Then, all of a sudden, Jocelyn pointed at someone and screamed, “You!”
Stephanie was laughing as she moved her camera in the direction of Jocelyn’s wrath.
“Holy shit, Olivia,” Stephanie said. “You’re not going to believe this. It’s the girl from the video!”
Before Stephanie’s FaceTime cut out, I could hear a group of people chanting, “Jofowin! Jofowin! Jofowin!”
I debated for a split second then I decided that I needed to go and rescue Katie.
Clara-Jane barely stirred as I dressed her warmly (again), tucked her into the car seat (again), and drove to One Hundred Acre Oaks.
There were so many people between us and Jocelyn that I didn’t feel any sense of urgency to flee. However, she did have security guards, but they were busy going after people who were trying to steal valuable items, like painting, vases, and, of all things, the Christmas Tree in the foyer.
“I’m hungry,” Sean said so we slipped into a grand dining room filled with buffet tables full of every dish imaginable, and while we ate a few things, we didn’t linger.
As a group, we inspected the game room, the theater, the bowling alley, as well as the indoor pool, which looked like Jocelyn had attempted to close off, but was unsuccessful because dozens of students, wearing formal attire, were splashing about in the water.
Abbi grabbed my hand and for a second I thought she meant to hold it, like romantically, but my hopes were dashed when it was just to get me to stop.
“Do you hear that?” Abbi asked. I strained to hear something but it was quiet. Then she grabbed my hand again and kept hold of it. My heart soared and I knew in that instant I had made the right decision in not applying to NYU.
“I don’t hear anything,” Katie said.
“Exactly,” Abbi said. “I have an idea, guys.”
And when she told us, it was brilliant.
As Paul, Abbi, and Seth retrieved their equipment from the minivan, I explored Jocelyn’s house. Every once in a while I’d hear her telltale screech, but it was usually from the first floor.
Many of the doors were locked, which was smart, but when I got to the back of the mansion, I heard barking and that’s when remembered that Jocelyn’s dad bred Golden Retrievers.
I looked out one of the many floor-to-ceiling windows and saw that there was another snow-covered structure in the backyard. It wasn’t exactly a shed since it looked like someone could live there, but I noticed the fences that surrounded it and concluded that that’s where the barking was coming from.
After searching for an exit, I finally found one that wouldn’t lock behind me, and I made my way away from Jocelyn’s screaming and toward the mewing and barking of puppies.
When the guard inspected my neon-green invitation and the sleeping Clara-Jane hoisted on my hip, he barely blinked an eye before telling me to “have a good time.”
I’d never been to any house in One Hundred Acre Oaks but if any mansion could resemble a high-end war zone, this might be it.
Tables were turned over. Deserts and decorations littered the floors. String lights, which had obviously been hung from the banisters and columns and up and over doors, had been pulled down. The DJ station was empty, so I knew that Stephanie, wherever she was, was disappointed.
Group texts were flying back and forth and I discovered that Jocelyn had been pushed into the pool when she attempted to get everyone kicked out.
In a different room, which hadn’t been overly destroyed, I found buffet tables with both hot and cold foods. I snagged a petite four from a desert tray and popped it in my mouth. It was so good I ate a second piece.
After a few minutes, I heard what sounded like live music, and I followed the sound.
There I discovered Paul drumming away as a football-player-sized boy (who I vaguely recognized) played the base guitar while a pretty black girl (who I didn’t know) sang a popular song. A crowd began to form and before long they had a large audience rocking and dancing along.
I didn’t see Katie anywhere.
So, instead of searching a twenty thousand square foot house from top to bottom, and, not knowing how I’d feel or what I’d do once I found her, I decided to text Katie.
When she sent in her reply, it was to tell me where she was along with a picture of puppies.
If I got to choose my own death, it would have to be death by puppy hugs. When I entered the canine training facility (I learned that title afterwards), I encountered a tall and pleasant gentleman who happened to be Jocelyn’s father. He was sitting in a small fenced pen as four Golden Retrievers puppies fought for his attention.
Right away he jokingly admitted that he was hiding from his daughter and, after telling me he needed to get the puppies their treats, he said I could sit with them until he got back.
As the puppies crawled all over me, and as Abbi and the Boys played in the background, I heard the door snick open and Olivia, carrying a sleeping Clara-Jane, slipped into the room. She looked like she did at school. The only thing missing was a cringy-expression.
“You were not kidding,” Olivia said, smiling, as she drew closer. “You are, indeed, covered in puppies.”
I introduced her to all four puppies. I remembered their names, I just wasn’t sure if I tagged them properly. They didn’t seem to notice as they desperately tried to nibble on Olivia’s boot strings and, as she crouched to pet them, her fingers.
Clara-Jane stirred to life and demanded to be put down in order to play and for a few moments we watched in silence as the puppies chased her within the small pen.
“You didn’t have to come find me, you know,” I said.
Olivia took a sideways step closer, her pinky grazing mine. “Yes, I did.”
My breath totally caught. I turned and read the fear of rejection displayed in her eyes. There was also a flicker of hope there, too.
“W-why?” I hooked my pinky around hers and soon our hands were intertwined.
From inside the mansion, Abbi and the Boys started playing their newest song, Abbi’s epic ballad. She told the crowd it was called, “Winter’s Perfect Night.”
“I read the note,” Olivia admitted.
I groaned but then stifled it. Olivia read it. It brought her here, within touching distance. Heck, within kissing distance.
“And?” I asked, looking up into her eyes. She was taller than me.
She took another step and when her lips where inches from mine, she said, “I thought I should give you my answer in person.”
Our lips touched for the briefest moment as Clara-Jane’s voice bubbled over with joy. Olivia and I held hands as Abbi’s song ended. Then, in the background, we heard the faintest sounds of police sirens. I stood with my crush as my best friend’s band played at the biggest party of the year while Jocelyn’s reputation took a hit. Not only was it a night to remember, it was a perfect night.
It was Winter's Perfect Night.
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