Page 4 of Take 2
“Right, those are tomorrow. Can I come to see you nerd out over movies?”
My face heats. “Oh, when I say party, it’s probably not what you would ever consider a party to be.”
“What is your Oscars party like?”
“Just a few friends at my house, and we’re kind of dressing up for the occasion. Apps and champagne and stuff.” My words come out in a speedy jumble.
“Is it a girls’ night?”
“No.” That would have been a good opportunity to lie and stop this madness, though! He’s making my brain work too slowly.
“If I promise to learn to tie a bow tie, can I score an invitation?”
“Ties are not required.” What the hell is happening?
“Well then, if you decide you’re willing to let a potential axe murderer crash the party, text me your address. I’ll bring a bottle of champagne.”
I nod like an idiot, and he goes back inside. What just happened?
Morgan and Cece are at my sides immediately, proving we were in fact being watched. “I saw phones,” Morgan says. “Please tell me you just scored that amazingly hot guy on your birthday.”
“No.”
“Why are you hyperventilating?” Cece asks.
“Because I think I invited him to the Oscars party. Or he invited himself. I don’t know.”
Morgan’s eyes bulge. “Oh my god! Okay, well then, I’m so glad we put off dress shopping until tomorrow, because I’m going to need you to be in a very different kind of dress than you would have bought otherwise.”
“No, no, it’s not like that.” I shake my head like that can stop the momentum this disaster already has.
“It’s gonna be,” Cece says. “It’s gonna be like that. Just you wait.”
The next night, Cece plays fairy godmother. Except there is no magic wand, so it takes a lot longer. I think we’re hours into the beautification process.
“What part of it’s not like that do you not understand?” Not that my complaints have gotten me anywhere all day, but I keep trying.
Cece continues shaping each long princess curl with tender care. “The part where you don’t think we can make it like that.”
“Maybe I don’t want to score the hot jock.” Because, you know, who wants a gorgeous, tall, athletic type who might even also be nice?
“I’m not trying to get you married, Cinderella. Just some fun.”
“That’s not the kind of fun guys like him want to have with girls like me.” My small stature makes me cute. Not hot. Not beautiful. Always cute. “He’s way too hot to want cute.”
“Honey, you are smokin’.” She turns me toward the mirror to take in her magic.
There actually seems to be some dimension to my brown hair as it flows over my shoulders, covering the spaghetti straps of the form-fitting dress.
The gold beaded pattern over black fabric is straight out of The Great Gatsby , and the skirt ends perilously high on my thighs.
My eyes look bigger than they have any right to, and I’m pretty sure the faint shimmer on my skin is fairy dust.
It's surreal to look like this in the bedroom that used to have beanie babies on the bookshelves.
“Does it all go to hell at midnight? Or are your powers stronger than the fairy godmother’s?”
“This can only be messed up by rough sex.” She winks at me.
“So super permanent. Cool.”
“Oh, come on.” She bustles out of my room. “We’re missing the red carpet.”
I follow her downstairs and slip into sparkly, gold heels.
The Oscars are one of the few times I will suffer through pretty shoes.
It’s equally as ridiculous as dressing up for Christmas or Thanksgiving at home or a family member’s house, but this is just as important of a holiday.
“Anything good?” I ask as we reach Morgan and Stephen.
“Vera Farminga is the only one I noticed in a crazy gown,” Morgan says as she pulls a tray of her signature tiny tacos out of the oven.
“This is such a fun idea.” Cece pours herself a glass of champagne. “Do you do this every year?”
“On a different scale.” The different scale being that it’s always been with my parents, who are out of town this weekend, hence this delightful gathering. The lack of friends I would have wanted to do this with in high school was definitely a contributing factor to my early graduation.
“Well, I’m always down for this kind of party.” Morgan does look like she’s made for this. She ended up being the one to put together the apps and make everything perfect. “As much as the gross college bar scene is fun, this is my jam.”
“But you’re not likely to meet new people at fancy house parties.” Stephen grabs a flute and wiggles his eyebrows conspiratorially. “Is this guy really as hot as Morgan says?”
“This is a terrible idea,” I say. They’re going to act weird and try to set me up with this poor, unsuspecting guy. “Where’s my phone? I’m telling him I’m sick.”
“You will do no such thing!” Cece snags a cocktail shrimp, and the doorbell confirms that I don’t even have the opportunity.
“Okay, but what if I’m actually sick? Because I might be.” I lay a hand on my stomach. How did I let this happen? Why is he at my house right now?
“You have to let him in,” Stephen says. “I can’t be the only one to have not seen him. Damn my work schedule for making me miss last night!”
I become less stable on my heels as I walk to the front door. Hot Football Player Ryan standing on my front porch with a bottle of champagne in hand is the most ridiculous sight. He does not belong here, where my neighborhood friends would stop by to ask if I could come out to play.
“Hi,” I say. Okay, I made my voice work. Baby steps.
He looks me up and down, and my knees buckle. “You weren’t kidding. I really should have worn a bow tie.” Except to close the top two buttons on his white shirt would be criminal. His throat and the top of his chest should not be hidden. His open black blazer is plenty formal. No bow tie needed.
I gesture him in and swallow back whatever errant emotions are making my brain fuzzy. “I thought you didn’t know how to tie one?”
“That’s what YouTube is for.” He looks around. “I didn’t realize you live in the ’burbs.”
“Yeah, I picked Madison so I could live at home and save up money for grad school.”
“Oh, you’re a local .”
I tilt my head in response to his lofty tone. “I suppose you’re from somewhere very exotic. Italy? Singapore?”
He grins at my jab. “Whitefish Bay.”
“Wow. White Folks Bay. Two whole hours away!”
“You must drive slow. It’s an hour and a half, smartass. So are Mr. and Mrs. Not-Swan home?”
“What?”
“That’s how I have you saved in my phone. ‘Bella Not-Swan.’”
I pop my lips. “So you don’t accidentally text Bella Swan about your English homework?”
“Yep.”
“Okay, then. Well, no. They’re not here.” I lead him to the kitchen. “Ryan, you met Cece …”
He nods to her. “Still scared of you.”
“Good.” She smiles wickedly.
“And this is Morgan and Stephen.”
The former wiggles her fingers at him, and the latter nods in a way that I hope Ryan can’t read as him agreeing about how hot our new guest is. “Nice to meet you.”
“Are you all from Madison?” Ryan asks as he puts the bottle on the counter.
“No.” Morgan takes the bottle to the fridge. Thank God she’s a natural hostess. I’m too frazzled to be useful right now. “They all hail from who-cares-where Wisconsin places, but I’m from Florida.”
“Who moves from Florida to Wisconsin?”
“Ryan,” Cece says, “we ask that all the time.”
Morgan rolls her eyes as she fills two flutes. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.” Ryan takes the glass she offers and hands it to me.
“I, for one, am thankful for your questionable decision-making.” I blow Morgan a kiss, and she flutters her lashes at me.
As I take a sip, she says, “You should try making some questionable decisions,” and I almost choke.
We turn the volume up on the TV when the show starts.
The Academy Awards does wonders to calm my nerves.
I needed this to focus on instead of Ryan’s presence.
Best animated feature is easy enough to predict.
Up is only the second animated film in history to be nominated for best picture.
Tina Fey begins the presentation of best original screenplay by saying, “Great movies begin with great writing,” earning cheers from my friends and flutes tipped toward me.
Her banter with Robert Downey Jr. is golden.
She takes the side of what writers want in actors, and the list of things actors want in a script could only be delivered with such deadpan humor by RDJ.
When he says, “It’s a collaboration between handsome, gifted people and sickly little mole people,” we all laugh.
“You want to be a sickly little mole person?” Ryan asks.
“Absolutely.”
Cece is still giggling. “You’re going to be an awesome mole person.”
The Hurt Locker wins it, and I do everything I can to subdue my excitement.
Ryan realizes that the same movies are nominated for a lot of the awards, and unsurprisingly, he’s never watched most of them. “Okay, I’ve seen these,” he says when visual effects comes up.
“Which one was your favorite?” I ask.
“District 9.”
Avatar wins, and Ryan claims that was his second favorite from the list.
As the night winds toward the grand finale, Ryan asks which movie I think will win best picture. I blow out a long breath through pursed lips. “I can’t comment. I don’t want to jinx it. But they’re all great. Really, it’s a toss-up.”
“Sounds like a nightmare for gambling.”
I gasp. “We do not bet on the Oscars, Ryan. They are sacred.”
“Okay.” He holds his hands up in defense.
My knees bounce as the award for directing is presented.
My heart pounds either because I’m holding my breath or from the anticipation.
When Kathryn Bigelow’s name is announced, I leap off the couch.
A screech tears out of me, and I jump up and down a couple of times before physics, clumsiness, and stilettos catch up with me, and I fall practically into Ryan’s lap.
“Oh, sorry!” I brace myself on his shoulders, and his hands support my waist. I sniffle and blush and move back to my spot next to him.