“Hey, Mom,” I said. “Somebody left this for you.” I gave it to her, and she stared at it with a furrowed brow. (Well, her brow would’ve been furrowed if it hadn’t been so loaded with Botox.)
“But it’s got your name on it, Naomi,” she said, a touch of wonder in her voice as she handed it back to me. “And look at that gorgeous handwriting.”
I looked. She was right. There on the front of the pale pink envelope was my name in the most exquisite cursive. It looked as if the writer had used a calligraphy pen, but the handwriting was so lovely that I wondered if it had been done professionally. Every Christmas, my mother throws an eggnog soiree at her big Manhattan apartment, and she always hires this fancy stationer, Dolores Weathers, to address the invitations and fill out the place cards. The writing on this pink envelope was even prettier than anything Dolores had ever cooked up.
My mother’s eyes lit up. “Perhaps Delilah is having a party!” she said excitedly. “I’d think Merilee would’ve mentioned it to me—we met up for lunch today, it was wonderful—but it’s possible she wanted it to be a lovely surprise for you.” I was intrigued, for sure. I tore open the envelope (“You’re ripping it up!” my mother scolded me. “This might be something you want to keep!”) and unfolded the white note inside. It was a substantial piece of card stock, the sort of thing one might print a wedding invite on, and it contained the same elaborate handwriting:
Dear Naomi:
Hello, love! We’ve never met, but I’d love to remedy that situation by welcoming you to my carnival party this evening. You’re welcome to bring anyone you like. The party begins at 7 and should conclude around 1. Please give your mother my apologies for any inconvenience it may cause her—I’m afraid I’ve been a terrible neighbor and haven’t found the time to introduce myself yet. I’ll admit, I’m a bit shy! Rather appropriate for a blogger, I should think. Anyway, I admire her so much and hope to meet her in person soon. And I really hope to make your acquaintance tonight. Come ride the Ferris wheel—it’s going to be so beautiful under the moon
.
Best regards,
Jacinta Trimalchio
I scanned down to the bottom of the page and read the small print there: ARE YOU WANTED? THEWANTED.COM.
“Oh, wow,” I said. “This is that girl.”
“What girl?” my mother asked eagerly, snatching the invitation from my hand. She scanned it quickly, her mouth curving up into a smile when she read the part about how much Jacinta admired her. Then she seemed to notice what was at the end of the note.
“TheWanted.com!” she gasped. “Isn’t that the online Internet website Delilah was talking about?”
“Yes,” I said. “I am pretty sure that is the online internet website Delilah was talking about.”
My mother’s eyes lit up. “Ooh,” she said. “Let’s look at it, darling. This girl is famous!” I could tell any resentment she held toward the new neighbor was gone forever.
I popped open my laptop and went to TheWanted.com. The pink background matched the pink envelope, and the header displayed “The Wanted” in Jacinta’s distinctive handwriting. The site was designed with a simple elegance—no bells and whistles, no distracting pop-up ads (God, I hate those). The navigation bar below the header displayed the categories: Parties, Fashion, Beauty, Models, and What’s Jacinta Wearing? I clicked on the last category and brought up a seemingly endless page of daily posts of Jacinta from the neck down.
“She’s so thin,” my mother said admiringly. “Is she a model?”
“I don’t think so,” I said, scrolling through the entries. “But she sure seems to have a lot of clothes.” I paused on one post from the previous October entitled “Birthday Suit.” In the photo, Jacinta’s lithe frame was outfitted in a lavender boucle pantsuit with bright gold buttons down the front of the jacket and a bold, showy white lace ruffle encircling her long, swan-like neck. The hem of the pants stopped above her ankles. She wore lavender-and-white saddle shoes and lacy white ankle socks. It was one of those outfits that was completely weird and would’ve gotten her laughed out of school if she’d tried it in Chicago, but it made sense on some fancy style blog. The post read:
As if I even need to tell you this is Vivienne Westwood! The asymmetrical collar should’ve given it away, loves. The best 18th birthday present I could’ve asked for was a new box of Viv for—and you know I’ll always be honest with you about this—free, free, free! So yes, they wanted me to blog about it, and yes, I’m doing it, but only because it is actually this fabulous. For those of you who’ve been accusing me of sporting too many high-fashion freebies lately: I thrifted the shoes, socks, and the blouse with the incredible lace collar. And you can’t see my makeup (anonymity is the spice of blogging, angel faces), but it’s cheapy-cheap stuff from the drugstore. Just so you know I’m still your down-to-earth fashionista! All my love, Jacinta.
And there, at the bottom, was her beautiful signature.
“I like what she’s doing,” my mother said a little dreamily. “Her branding is fantastic. A mix of high-end and DIY. Aspirational yet accessible. Fresh.” I could tell my mother was going into one of her marketing term fits, when she stops speaking like a human and starts spouting terms that she and her business associates throw around.
“And of course,” Mom added, “I love the lavender. It’s not my style, but it’s very young and now. Oh, darling, I’m so thrilled she’s invited you to her party! You are going, aren’t you?” Through the kitchen window behind her, the Ferris wheel suddenly lit up with a dazzling panoply of twinkling white lights. It seemed party time was drawing nigh.
Maybe it was the almost pathetic look of hope in my mother’s expression. Maybe it was my natural curiosity about this fabu fashion goddess next door. More likely it was the fact that I’ve always loved carnivals. Whatever the reason, I found myself saying, “You know what? I am gonna go.” My mother followed me upstairs, jabbering all the way.
“Now, don’t wear all black like you did yesterday,” she said. “My God, you looked like you were going to a punk-rock funeral. Let me see what you’ve packed.” Uneasily, I let her go through my suitcase. As she combed through T-shirt after T-shirt, she heaved several disappointed sighs in a row.
“Do you possess anything that doesn’t have a cartoon character, a band, or a snotty saying on the front?” she asked, holding up one of my favorites, a green shirt that read, “I’m a big fan of your work.”
“Not that I’m aware of,” I said.
She opened her eyes wide and met my gaze with a steely determination. “I knew something like this would come up eventually,” she said, straining to remain calm. “So you know what I did, dear? I stocked up on some Marc Jacobs basics, just for you.”
I groaned. “I hate when you shop for me,” I said. “It’s for your own good,” she called over her shoulder as she rushed downstairs to get the bags. “You dress like you’re mentally unstable. You’re seventeen years old, Naomi. It’s time to start dressing like a woman, not an angry child.” In a flash, she was back upstairs with her bags.
“At least it’s not Lilly Pulitzer,” I said, and my mother blanched. Lilly Pulitzer dresses look like the most boring person in the world barfed on some fabric and fashioned it into a frock. When I was a kid, my mother was a Lilly Pulitzer devotee until some socialite whose event she was catering told her she ought to change into her real dress before the guests arrived. (I’m not kidding—this actually happened.) Ever since then, Mom has hated Lilly Pulitzer with an all-consuming passion.