Page 18 of Dear Debbie

Harley looks at me in confusion, because we’re only two minutes late. Somehow, my lateness has become a running joke, even though I’m usually quite prompt.

“Please excuse the mess,” Rochelle says to me and Harley, even though her house is spotless except for the row of champagne bottles lined neatly on a side table in the living room. “We’re preparing for an incredibly important party tonight. Did I mention to you that Gerard is going to announce his candidacy for the state senate seat tonight?”

“Yes, I believe you did,” I murmur.

“Anyway, tonight is going to be so crucial,” she says. “Even the mayor is going to be making an appearance to endorse him.”

“The mayor?” Harley repeats in amazement.

Rochelle nods solemnly. “It’s going to be quite the event. Esmerelda came this morning to clean the entire house, and it took forever.” She gives me a knowing look. “You’re so lucky you have so few bedrooms, Debbie. A house like mine takes forever to clean. But it has to be perfect.”

“Don’t worry, Rochelle,” Sloane says. “Tabby and I will be right at your side to support you tonight.”

Of course, I won’t be at Rochelle’s side, because I have not been invited to the party. There was a brief explanation from Rochelle about the guest list being “limited.” Not that I want to go to her stupid mayor party anyway.

But it would have been nice to be invited.

I set my tray down on Rochelle’s antique coffee table and remove the tinfoil from on top of the sandwiches. As soon as I take the foil off, Tabitha and Sloane both simultaneously dissolve into giggles.

“Did you make the sandwiches yourself?” Rochelle asks me, stifling a giggle of her own.

“I did.” I’m trying to keep the defensive edge out of my voice, but it’s hard when I’m talking to Rochelle. “It’s turkey and avocado with a sun-dried tomato spread.”

“How cute!” Sloane exclaims.

Harley frowns at me. “Debbie, didn’t I mention that I’m allergic to avocados?”

I clasp a hand over my mouth. “Oh my God, you did. I can’t believe I forgot. I am so sorry, Harley.”

“Debbie is the most forgetful person I know,” Rochelle comments, even though I can’t recall ever forgetting anything in the past. “But don’t worry, Harley. Our cook threw together a charcuterie board.”

It is quite the elaborate charcuterie board. There isn’t one piece of meat on it that hasn’t been formed into the shape of a flower. And I can count no less than eight types of cheese.

“I hope you’ll try my sandwiches though,” I say to Rochelle.

“Of course I will!” Rochelle picks up a triangular slice of one of the sandwiches that I painstakingly put together after I got back from the gym. “Like I said, they’re adorable. You can just tell that they’re homemade.”

She nibbles on the edge, which encourages the other women to take a piece too. I’m so pleased they’re trying my sandwiches. I certainly wouldn’t want all that hard work to go to waste.

13

HARLEY

Rich bitches.

That’s what I keep calling these women in my head. I’ve been chanting it over and over again, especially when Rochelle starts pontificating about this stupid boring book that I didn’t actually manage to read.

Rich bitches, rich bitches, rich bitches.

It helps that the words rhyme.

“I just think Velvet Moon is so clearly a takeoff on King Lear,” Rochelle says. “There is the elderly father and the three daughters vying for his favor. It’s such an obvious retelling.”

Rich bitches, rich bitches, rich bitches, rich bitches.

“I mean,” Rochelle continues, “I don’t even know how you can appreciate it without having read the play.”

Sloane and Tabitha nod in solemn agreement. It’s only Debbie who says stoutly, “I liked the book, and I never read King Lear.”