"You can't be serious."
Sherm sat at the big table in the work room of Crafty Chic. He was anxiously shuffling and reshuffling a deck of cards while I went over my supplies for the party one last time. Sherm's mom had taught him how to shuffle cards as a way of channeling extra energy into something productive. If his campaign manager gig didn't pan out, Vegas might be his calling.
"It'll be fine," I assured him. "It's not like Taylor's going to do anything to me in front of her mom."
Mrs. Bancroft had emailed me the day before telling me it was a garden party theme. She asked me to put together whatever I thought we'd need from the store, and have Mom let her know the total. I offered to bring it along with me to save her a trip out to pick everything up.
"Be reasonable, Elle." Sherm cut the cards and performed a neat riffle shuffle. "Taylor doesn't change her ways for anyone."
"Least of all for me, you mean." I knew that's what he was thinking.
"You just got people on your side, Elle. Getting pulled onto her turf means you're giving her back the upper hand." Slide shuffle. Another riffle shuffle. "She wants people to know she's still in charge. You'll just be one of her minions."
Boys don't understand the power of one fashion achiever over another. Taylor was a terrible artist. I knew that from years of elementary school art classes. And her handwriting looked like scribbles. No way could she out-design me. She needed me in her inner circle.
I double checked the bag with the paints and tucked in the booklets I'd made of quotes and phrases. Mom had let me make each girl her own booklet on Mom's binding machine. Sherm, wise person that he usually was, had decided that my designs needed a name and a logo if I was going to start doing custom work. If you're going to make a splash, he'd said, you've gotta start with a cannonball.
A few hours of brainstorming and Glory's graphic design skills later, I had a catchy name and logo for my designs.
Inspire Wear by Elle. Glory had woven a swirly I, W, and E into a stylized flower for my logo.
I picked up the Crafty Chic tote bag and slung it over my shoulder. "Aren't campaign managers supposed to be supportive?" I asked. Why did Sherm have to rain on my ticker tape parade? It had been such a whirlwind last few days. And not the usual I've-lost-another-election-when-will-I-ever-learn whirlwind. For once.
"Campaign managers are the voice of reason," Sherm replied. Kenchi shuffle. "Taylor never does anything that's not in her best interest."
"This IS in her best interest, Sherm. She knows I have a two-week waiting list for stuff. This bumps her friends to the top of the list."
Riffle shuffle. Waterfall shuffle. Corgi shuffle. Sherm's stress shuffling was increasing in speed.
"What's in it for you?" he finally asked. "What's the return on your investment? I'm not seeing the value for you. For Taylor, but not for you."
"To give Taylor's followers a voice of their own," I said, smooth like butter. "That's what's in it for me. Would you rather they continue to be her sheep?"
Sherm's hands paused mid-shuffle. I had him, and we both knew it. No one wants to encourage a generation of sheep.
But it was only partly the truth. There was also, if I'm being completely honest, a teeny tiny part of me that wanted to take advantage of tonight. This long-awaited chance to hang with Taylor and her crowd again, to be accepted instead of ridiculed. I can admit it; I was excited.
Sherm would've called it desperate. I called it making the most of an unexpected opportunity.
I said goodbye to Sherm with a promise to text him and Glory when I got home, even if it was late. They'd lived through the last few years of pain and suffering with me after the divorce. Plus, they'd helped me get Inspire Wear off the ground. They were as invested in my success as I was.
When Mrs. Bancroft had said it was a garden party, I didn't realize she meant she'd transformed their spacious family room into an indoor garden paradise. Potted plants lined the walls. Flowering ivy-covered trellises had been brought in as room dividers. I didn't know where they'd found all these flowers in bloom in the middle of winter, but the smell was pure heaven.
"Elle, welcome!" Mrs. Bancroft ushered me inside as the wind blew wisps of snow in the door. "It's so nice to see you again. We've missed you around here," she added warmly. "You're just in time. May I take your coat?"
"Thanks, Mrs. Bancroft." I set down the tote bag and Taylor's artfully bagged present-thanks to Aunt Mo-while I shrugged out of my coat.
"Do you need some time to set up?" she asked.
"When did you want to do the Inspire Wear part?"
"Whenever you're ready, dear." She gestured to the tote bag. "Did your mother send along an invoice for me? I'll have your check for you at the end."
I gave her the envelope, feeling a little weird talking about money with Mrs. Bancroft. This was the same woman who once took me home in the middle of the night because I forgot my favorite stuffed animal and couldn't get back to sleep without it.
"I'll let Taylor know you're here," she said, showing me the way to a large table with a floral tablecloth.
I could hear that some of the girls had already arrived and were upstairs in Taylor's room. A room Glory and I had spent countless hours in with them once upon a friendship. When Taylor had banished me, Glory had left out of solidarity. That's the kind of person Glory was.
Mrs. Bancroft had set up name cards around the table, a seating arrangement I would've bet money that Taylor designed herself. Another way to wield her power, choosing how close or how far you were from the guest of honor. The pecking order of Taylor's social hierarchy on this particular day.
I busied myself getting stations set up at everyone's places and setting out the ring-bound booklets. I wanted to get that out of the way before the party started so I wasn't messing around with it while we were supposed to be doing other fun stuff. Mrs. Bancroft had even set up my work station as a display table where I could demo some of the techniques for getting nice even cursive writing and avoiding splotches and smears.
Taylor and her entourage came down the stairs while Mrs. Bancroft poured us sparkling rose punch. Everyone ooo'd and ahh'd over the place settings I'd laid out. Even Taylor.
When everyone was set with their punch, Taylor gathered us around the table. "I'm so glad you could come on short notice, Elle," Taylor said, squeezing my arm. "I know how in demand you are. Thanks for making your friends a priority."
Her subtle jab about not being invited until the last minute did not go unnoticed by me. But the "friends" mention kept me from caring. This, at last, was my way back into the elite social ranks.
I needed every boost of visibility I could get with my classmates to help my Road to the White House Master Plan finally get rolling. I might have lost the election battle, but I was proving I could rebound with the best of them. Bouncing back from adversity is a must for any president.
The fact that it would also prove I wasn't really the loser Taylor painted me to be was a satisfying bonus.
"Anything for a friend," I said, easily sliding into presidential schmooze mode. I turned toward the girls with their jeans laid out on the table. "Is everyone ready to make a statement?"
I hadn't realized when Taylor said she wanted each girl to have her own pair that she was providing the pants too. And not just any pants. Joie de Vivre jeans, the absolute hottest thing at school. I couldn't afford them in my wildest dreams. And here I was making mine into an Inspire Wear original.
I used my fancy new jeans to demo the design process. For the next half hour, I helped them pick out paint colors and practice writing with paint pens on cardboard practice sheets.
We laughed and encouraged each other as people made spelling mistakes or got drips and drops on them despite oh-so-careful efforts not to. I showed them how to cover up mistakes with a decorative flourish, leaving no one the wiser. Presidents were good at covering up minor slips with something positive.
Mrs. Bancroft looked on with interest, cheering our progress and refilling drink cups. It gave me a rush that Mrs. Bancroft-with all her fashion experience-was so generous with her praise for my designs. That was a compliment of the highest order.
Once things started to wind down and people were laying their jeans on the drying racks Mrs. Bancroft had set up for us, Taylor came up next to me and gave me a quick hug around the shoulder. Her grin was so huge it made her eyes squinty.
I grinned back, relieved to be back on good terms with Taylor and thrilled that everyone's pants turned out fun. They weren't as neat or creative as real Inspire Wear by Elle, but they were all pretty good for beginners.
"Can I have everyone's attention, please?" Taylor asked.
Birthday or no birthday, that answer was always a yes with this crowd. Everyone hurried to drape their jeans on the racks and come back to the table.
"I don't know about you guys," Taylor told them, "but I thought this was super fun."
The girls chattered their agreement. Not one single person, not even BFF Brittany, was still looking at me like a loser.
"Thank you so much, Elle, for coming to do our party project. It was awesome." She began to applaud, and everyone followed suit.
"Well done, Elle," Mrs. Bancroft agreed. "And for my wonderful daughter"-she carefully picked up the jeans I had used as my demo and laid them out like a game show hostess for Taylor-"your very own custom jeans made by Elle herself. Genuine Inspire Wear by Elle."
I stared at the jeans in front of Taylor. My jeans. My gorgeous, custom Joie de Vivre jeans.
Taylor leaned over and hugged her mom, careful not to get paint on her birthday girl shirt. Then Taylor gave my wrist a friendly squeeze. "Thanks again, Elle. This was a blast. My mom has everything you need, so we'll scoot out of your way while you clean up." She turned back to the group. "Who's ready for cake?"
The girls followed Taylor out into the kitchen, a couple of them tossing me a confused look over their shoulder. I was feeling a little confused myself. Actually, confused wasn't the right word.
Humiliated. That's the word I was looking for.
Of course Taylor hadn't invited me to her party. That would make me her equal.
I was the hired help.
"I love what you're doing, Elle," Mrs. Bancroft said, helping me gather up the paint pens and put them back into the Crafty Chic tote. "It was so much more than I expected. Taylor says you've built up a nice little business for yourself customizing jeans for classmates. She was thrilled we could hire you for the party."
My hands fumbled the paint pens, dropping two back onto the tablecloth.
"I hope you'll join us for cake," she continued, oblivious to my mortification as she carefully moved my-slash-Taylor's new jeans to the drying rack. "I know Taylor would love it."
Not flipping likely. Taylor had me exactly where she wanted me.
I politely declined with an excuse about trying to cut back on sugar. The words sounded health-conscious and mature-both good presidential traits-but I was glad I wasn't looking her in the eye.
After asking if I was sure, Mrs. Bancroft politely excused herself for a minute and joined the girls in the kitchen while I cleaned up the rest of my demo area. The girls' voices streamed through the opening between the rooms as they sang Happy Birthday to Taylor. The song was followed by a hush and a burst of applause as, I could only assume, Taylor blew out her candles. I willed myself not to cry.
Future President's Note #41: Presidents don't cry in public when their opponent gets the best of them.
"Here we are," Mrs. Bancroft said, returning from the kitchen with a small box. "It's chocolate cake with raspberry filling. I put in pieces for your mom and Aunt Maureen. And an extra one for you, in case you change you mind," she added with a smile.
I blinked hard, forcing a campaign smile across my face. Mrs. Bancroft handed me an envelope with the cake box. "This is for your mother. I called to let her know you were wrapping up. Please tell her thank you again for letting me send a check back with you for the supplies. And this"-she handed me a second envelope-"is for you. I added a little extra to what Taylor said was your normal rate as a bonus for a job well done."
Technically, I would've charged her less than my normal rate because she'd bought the supplies, and I'd only done one of the designs myself. But my time-and my pride-were worth extra, so I accepted the check. My smile didn't reach my eyes, but I kept it pasted on anyway. A few more minutes, and I could collapse into Mom's car and fall apart in private. "Thank you, Mrs. Bancroft. That's very kind of you." Even in my worst moment, I still remembered my White House manners. Someday that would count for something.
Headlights flashed through the picture window as Mom pulled into the driveway. Mrs. Bancroft helped me into my coat. "You're a very talented girl, Elle. Thank you again for making Taylor's party one to remember."
Just one more sentence, and I was free. "It was my pleasure, Mrs. Bancroft."
But my voice cracked on the word pleasure.
Mrs. Bancroft's hand stilled on the door knob. "Are you alright, dear?"
I couldn't speak. The tears were too close to the surface to risk it. I nodded, blinking in rapid succession to clear my eyes.
I saw the moment Mrs. Bancroft made the connection. Her eyes slid to the bag I'd left sitting in the foyer. Not a second supply bag, but a gift bag.
"Oh." Her eyes darted from the bag, to me, back to the bag. "Oh, my goodness. Elle, I didn't realize . . ."
I don't know which was worse. Me being embarrassed or Mrs. Bancroft being embarrassed for me. I swallowed hard and tried to speak evenly. Presidents don't show weakness.
"It's okay." My smile felt tight and unnatural, and my voice was more croak than words. "It was just a misunderstanding."
I tucked the envelopes in my coat pocket and let myself out the front door. I gingerly picked my way through the snow that had fallen, avoided slipping on the wet sidewalk, and somehow managed to gracefully lower myself into the car without dropping the cake box.
I waited until we had turned the corner and were nothing more than taillights to anyone watching from the house on the hill.
Then, and only then, did I let myself cry.