"What?" Teagan snapped. She felt like she could lunge across the bar, grab the skinny dude by his lapels, and spin him.
"No alcohol tonight. Sorry, miss."
"Uh, no. I don't think so," Teagan said shrilly. "I ordered the full open bar for five hours. I even went over the stock list myself."
"Well, then someone changed the order," the bartender said with an infuriatingly blase shrug. "I got nothing but soda, sparkling cider, juice, and water."
"What the hell are you talking about!?" Teagan screeched.
"Them's the rules," he said, clearly enjoying this.
Teagan crumpled a few envelopes in her fists. Her nostrils flared as she turned around, searching the room for George Lowell. Someone around here was going to pay for this. Someone was going to pay dearly.
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Upcoming Sweet Sixteen Party
Transcript 2, cont'd.
Reporter: Melissa Bradshaw, Senior Editor, Rosewood Prep Sentinel
MB: You mentioned you were only inviting your father because he was paying. Does this mean that the two of you have a strained relationship?
TP: I didn't say that. When did I say that?
MB: It's right here in the transcript from our first interview. (sounds of paper rustling) Here it is. I asked you if you would have any family at the party and you said, and I quote, "Only my father and his fiancee. And only because he's paying."
TP: Well, you can't print that.
MB: Sorry, but it's already on the record.
TP: My father and I have a fine relationship. If you print that we don't, I'll sue your [edited for content] for libel.
MB: Do you even know what libel means?
TP: Missy, Are you condescending to me?
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MB: You're kind of obsessed with appearances, aren't you?
TP: Excuse me?
MB: I mean, you're clearly lying to this reporter about how you feel about your father. Is it really that important to you that the readers of the Sentinel think your home life is so perfect?
TP: Who the hell do you think you are? We're supposed to be talking about my sweet sixteen, not my non-relationship with my father.
MB: So you admit it's a non-relationship.
TP: (fumbling sounds) That's it! This interview is over! And you can kiss your all-access pass good-bye! (sound of door slamming)
MB: That was kind of fun.
END OF TAPE 2
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Teagan saw her father bust out of the crowd, Karen tripping and wobbling along at his heels like a little lapdog. The woman might look beautiful, but she certainly didn't know how to maneuver in those Prada heels. Teagan narrowed her eyes at their approach. As much as she didn't want to see them at that moment, they were as good a pair of people to yell at as any.
"I don't believe these idiots!" Teagan shouted. "There's no alcohol!"
A middle-aged couple moved away from her, looking disturbed. Thanks to Shay's music and all the raucous conversation and laughter filling up the room, no one else heard her yell.
Her father reached out and placed his warm hands on her upper arms. His grip was firm, as if he was hoping to hold her there in case an earthquake hit. For a split second Teagan was actually grateful for his solid presence. At this point, between
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her anger, her buzz, and her empty stomach, the room was kind of spinning.
"I know, honey," her father said. "I called George Lowell this afternoon and canceled the open bar."
Teagan felt like her father had just hauled back and slapped her across the face. She could not have been more shocked.
"You did what!?!" she screeched.
This time at least a dozen people turned to see what the commotion was about. Each stunned face was another humiliation for Teagan.
This. Is not. Happening.
"I'm sorry, honey, but I just didn't think it was appropriate to have an open bar at a party in which the majority of the guests were underage," her father said. "I tried to call you all day to let you know, but your machine kept picking up."
Teagan's fingernails dug into her palms. Her vision swam. Her skin was so hot she felt like she had passed out on a tanning bed at Michel's without sunscreen. Teagan had thrown many fits over the years. She was the queen of tantrums. Every other day something made her so angry she could explode. But at that moment she knew that she had never felt this infuriated in her life.
"Who . . . the hell ... do you think . . . you are?" she said through her teeth, glaring at her father.
Karen gasped. Her father went white. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me," Teagan practically growled. "I worked for months on this party. Months! And you swoop in from God knows where after I haven't even seen you for two weeks and you ruin everything in one afternoon. Do you have any idea what you've done to me? My entire school is here. Everyone
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is going to be laughing behind my back! They're going to think I'm a huge loser!"
It took her father a moment to recover himself. When he did, he was shaking. "Teagan, I am your father. How dare you speak to me that way!"
"How dare you call yourself my father!" Teagan replied, her eyes hot with unshed tears. She knew even as she said it that it was an evil thing to say, but at that moment she couldn't have cared less who knew. "If you were a real father, you could never have done this to me!"
With that, Teagan turned around and slammed right into a miniskirted waitress. The huge silver tray she was toting tilted and smacked Teagan right in the face. She felt something heavy and wet plop onto her chest and dribble, cold and gloopy, down her cleavage. Shrimp showered the hardwood floor around the bar.
"Omigod! I am so sorry!" someone said.
Teagan opened her eyes and saw red. Red cocktail sauce splattered all over the neckline of her one-of-a-kind Vera Wang. It dripped all down the front of her dress toward the hem and a huge glop plopped right onto her freshly manicured toe, settling on and around the straps of her ridiculously expensive Jimmy Choos. The thick mess slid between her breasts and down her stomach toward her La Perla thong.
Karen lunged toward Teagan with a pile of napkins from the bar. Teagan stumbled backward, away from Karen, glaring the klutzy waitress in the eye. There was something familiar about her. Like Teagan had seen her before in a movie or a photograph, but she was too pissed off to think about it.
"I'm so sorry," the woman said, tearing off her Gucci
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sunglasses. "It's these stupid shades they made us wear! None of us can see anything with these on!"
Teagan quaked from head to toe. Not only did this woman just destroy her dress and mortify her in front of her guests, now she was telling her that she was stupid for asking the help to look semi-presentable? She was an employee, for God's sake.
"You are so fired!" Teagan growled.
Instantly George Lowell was at Teagan's side, clucking over her dress. "Oh, Miss Phillips! What a shame! I do apologize," he told her, shaking his head. "Come. We'll rush you back to the suite and see what we can do."
Teagan glanced around and saw a few of her acquaintances from Rosewood eyeing her in an amused way or placing their hands over their mouths in shock. Missy Whatever Her Name Was snapped pictures so quickly her flash was like a strobe light. Lowell was right. She had to get out of here. Fast.
He stepped aside and opened his arm to her, letting her scurry out first. Teagan ducked her head and her hair fell over her face, shielding her. The moment she was cloaked in the deserted safety of the hallway, she stuffed her thumbnail into her mouth and started to gnaw. If she didn't gnaw, she was going to cry. And crying was not an option. So much for the manicure.
"Teagan!" her father called out.
"Michael, let her go," Karen said in a calming tone. "Leave her alone for a few minutes."
You better listen to her, Teagan thought, turning the corner and shoving open the door to the bridal suite. You come back here and I cannot be
responsible for my actions.
Teagan was in a rage. A blind, irrational rage. The
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moment the door closed behind her and George Lowell, she whirled on him like a tornado.
"I want that waitress fired this second!" she shouted. "Her and that idiot boy-band-looking valet that walked me in here. I don't know where the hell you hire your people from, but I have never seen service like this outside of Red Lobster."
"Miss Phillips, please calm down," Lowell said, raising his hands like stop signs. He didn't back up or get flustered, which just irritated Teagan more.
"I'll calm down when you fire their asses!" she snapped. "Do you have any idea how much this dress cost? More than you make in a month!"
Lowell had the decency to go pale. "Accidents happen, Miss Teagan. I -- his
"Why are you still here?" Teagan practically screamed. "That's it! I'm gonna sue this place for all it's worth! You can't just destroy someone's personal property and then stand there and tell me about accidents!" she added, barely even aware of what she was saying. "I'll call my lawyer right now!"
Teagan didn't have her own lawyer, of course, but Lowell didn't know that. She found her bag sitting on the vanity table and rifled through it for her phone. In her blind fury, however, she couldn't find it and her frustration only mounted.
"Miss Phillips, please. I'll go talk to the waitress," George Lowell said finally. "I'll . . . I'll do as you request. Just please, try to take a few breaths and calm down."
"Fine," Teagan said, stepping away from her bag. Her hands were trembling.
"I'll be right back to help you get cleaned up," Lowell told her. Then he turned and slipped soundlessly out of the room.
The second he was gone, Teagan burst into tears. She
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couldn't help it anymore. Her reflection wavered three times over in the concave mirrors, the huge red stain like a gash of blood down her body. This wasn't happening. It could not be happening.
Teagan grabbed a tissue box off the vanity table and yanked out a huge wad of tissues. She pulled the neckline of her dress away from her body and dug down with the tissues, wiping at her stained skin. Halfa cup of cocktail sauce came out with the tissues and she grimaced, tossing the whole mess toward the garbage can and missing by a mile. Her chest was heaving up and down so hard she felt like she was going to vomit. The dress was ruined beyond repair. Her specially commissioned sweet sixteen dress. What had she done to deserve this?
"Okay, that's it," Teagan said aloud when she heard the direction her thoughts were going. She took a deep breath and wiped her fingers under her eyes. She refused to feel sorry for herself. She refused to let anyone know she had cried.
Teagan stared at her reflection in the mirror. What was she supposed to do now? She couldn't go back out there like this. But she couldn't admit defeat and go home either, no matter how much her Juicy sweats and cashmere blankets were calling out to her.
Another deep breath and Teagan had formulated a plan. She searched her gigantic purse patiently this time and found her phone. She only paused for a moment when she saw that it wasn't on. She must have forgotten to reboot it after the salon. As soon as it sprang to life, it beeped happily at her, letting her know she had several messages. Apparently her father had tried to call her all day. As if she cared. She hit the speed dial button for the kitchen phone.
"Hello, Miss Teagan! How is the party?" Mrs. Natsui asked.
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"It sucks. You need to get down here and bring me some dresses from my closet," Teagan said, pacing back and forth in front of the mirror.
"What? What happened to your lovely blue -- his
"Do you have a pen or what?" Teagan snapped impatiently.
There was a split second of silence. "Yes, miss."
"Good. Bring me the pink Moschino, the blue Vivienne Tarn, and the flowered Gaultier that's still in the bag. Got it?" Teagan asked.
"Yes, Miss Teagan," Mrs. Natsui replied.
Teagan looked at her shoes and sighed. "I'm also going to need my silver Mizrahi sling backs and the hot pink stilettos I got in New York last month."
"All right, Miss Teagan."
"Get Jonathan to drive you over here ASAP," Teagan said. "And wrap everything in plastic! It's raining."
"I know, Miss Teagan," Mrs. Natsui said, an edge in her sickly sweet voice. What was with everyone and the attitude today?
Natsui's statement was punctuated by a flash of lightning and a rumble of thunder. Teagan hung up on her. She knew from experience that the more she talked back to Natsui, the slower the woman moved.
Teagan dropped her phone in her large bag and slipped the straps over her shoulder. She was proud to note that now that she had taken some action, the tears had completely dried up. The clothing situation was taken care of. Now all she had to do was locate some alcohol. She knew it was here somewhere and her bag was just big enough to smuggle a couple of bottles back to the party. Her father was not going to get the last word on this matter. There was no way she was going
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through the rest of this night without getting plastered. Hello? She was supposed to have sex tonight! Her dear old dad had no idea how much his one phone call to the club had ruined.
Taking a deep breath, Teagan slipped out into the hall and headed away from the ballroom. She dimly recalled from the tour she and her father had taken of the club a few years ago that they had a tremendous wine cellar stocked with all the greats. The vodka and bourbon and scotch were probably all under lock and key somewhere--that was, if this club knew anything about its over-privileged, out-for-mischief teenage clientele. But they probably never thought that Teagan and her friends would go trolling for Shiraz. She was, in fact, counting on it.
At the end of the corridor, the hallway split off in two directions. Every wall sconce trembled with each downbeat blasting from Shay's woofers. A raucous group cheer went up from the ballroom. Apparently everyone was having fun without her. Well, not for long. Teagan looked left and right, then hooked the right, just hoping she had chosen well. She nearly jumped in triumph when she found a door clearly marked Wine Cellar.
Ha! Think you can ruin my night? Teagan thought, picturing her smug father. She said a silent prayer as she reached for the doorknob. Mercifully it turned and the door swung open, letting out a cool gust of stale air.
Teagan flipped the light switch, but nothing happened. She tried it a few more times, but still the stubborn fluorescent fixture above the stairs refused to respond. Blowing out a frustrated sigh, Teagan stepped onto the first wooden step and closed the door behind her, plunging herself into total darkness.
There has to be another light downstairs, she told herself,
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shivering. She clutched her bag to her side and started her descent. The steps let out a loud, lazy whine as she took each one carefully. One board felt like it was bending under her weight. Unbelievable. She wasn't that huge. Couldn't this stupid club afford a new set of steps for its precious wine cellar?
There was no railing to speak of, so Teagan put her hands out for balance, squinting into the dark.
I can't believe this is my sweet sixteen, she thought, holding her breath. My life sucks. I have no mother, my father hates me, and I have been reduced to raiding the wine cellar on the biggest night of my life. Everyone is against me. My dad, Karen, that idiot George Lowell. I bet the waitress meant to slam into me. She was probably jealous and wanted to ruin my night. I hope she cries when he fires her. I hope she begs and pleads and--
Teagan felt the heel of her shoe catch, but she couldn't stop her other foot from going forward. Her stomach swooped as she grasped at the nothingness all around her and pitched forward, tumbling into the darkness. There was a distinct crack and Teagan wasn't sure if it was the stairs, her shoe's heel, or her ankle breaking in two. She didn't have more than a second to ponder it, though, because a moment later, after letting out a bloodcurdling scream that was heard by no one, she
had tumbled down the last eight stairs and smacked her perfectly coiffed head against the icy concrete floor.
While Shay laid down his signature groove in the ballroom above, Teagan Phillips lay on the basement floor, motionless.
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OP ED PAGE
Issue: The Biggest Story of the Year? Please.
Teagan Phillips is having a sweet sixteen. Have you heard? Yeah. Thought so. It's all anyone can seem to wrap their tongue around these days. People are talking about it in the computer lab. In the locker room. In the student lounge. In the mall. In the freakin' frozen food section of the supermarket. What are they going to wear? Who are they going to go with? What are they going to give the all- important guest of honor?
I ask you, fellow students, is this what we have come to? Do we really, as intelligent young people who will soon become functioning members of today's society, have nothing more important to converse about? The world does not revolve around Teagan Phillips. Our lives do not revolve around her. This school does not revolve around her. I mean, come on! She's not even a nice person. She doesn't need all of us talking about her and inflating her ego. What she really needs is a solid smack upside the head. Maybe then she'd wake up and realize that living for her sweet sixteen is just pathetic. But you're all living for her party, so what does that make you? Freaky, huh? Think about it.
I suggest you get your butts to the school lobby, read the activities board, and find something worthy of spending your time on. There's an Amnesty International meeting after school on Thursday. The women's lacrosse team is in the county finals this weekend. Rama Gupta and Akiko San are both competing in the state piano competition in Harrisburg next week. These people are real people with real talents. People worth getting excited about. I hope to start hearing some mention of them in the hallways, in place of a certain other spoiled someone whom I won't even mention again so that I can start stopping the madness now.
Thank you for your time, Ariana Metz Freshman
Retort: The Biggest Story of the Year! YES!
Ariana Metz is just bitter because she's a freshman and was not invited to the party.