CHAPTER 73 – Apologize (2)

A liminal drive through the city later, Eppe was back right where she had been three days prior, in the lobby of Culver City’s resident Sofitel.

This time, she took a right turn for the ballroom rather than the guest suites.

A pair of attentive staff opened the door, not to light, but to darkness.

After an encouraging bump from Eric, Eppie stepped into the room.

THWUMP—!

Her entry was announced by the sound of erupting confetti cannons, followed by strobe lights that lit the entryway in living colour. Paper parchments caught in her hair, in her sling, on her eyelashes; she blinked through a blizzard of foil hearts and paper pieces shaped, unmistakably, like tiny clefs.

Somewhere, a House DJ struck up something bassy and hip-hop, moving the air so profoundly that the confetti pulsed.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” came the expectant greeting, filling her ears and reverberating through her brain, loud enough to high-five the lowest segment of her spine.

Her eyes adjusted, a little wetly, and saw that everyone—EVERYONE—was here.

Chelsea and Lucy stood at the dessert bar like marines claiming a beachhead, already holding platefuls of buffet offerings.

Min-jun stood near the DJ booth pretending to learn from the man manning the rig.

On the dance floor, Cameron Atkinson and James Jules, plus a few of her English class boys, were waiting for the girls to join them.

As for the girls, Madison Evans and a few of the others from her theatre class stood sheepishly to one side, fully aware that they were here by association rather than invite.

To the side of the entryway, Eric kissed Emily, who kissed him back as a reward for a job well done.

Zara stood apart from her Sophomore friends, joined by her immediate family, who lived in LA and could chaperone their daughter.

At the centre of it all, next to what Eppie could only conceive as a wedding cake, was Frederick Curon, Kellie Noah, the mastermind that was Maddy Filmore… and Kelvin Grant. The final member of the quartet should have been a surprise—but Eppie’s [Intelligence] had worked out the rationale long before the surprise could bring delight.

Indeed, what better way to suck up to herself and Director Curon than to present himself in person? It wasn’t as though her captive audience self could rebuke his apology in front of all her friends.

As one, the guests converged on their one-armed birthday girl. Ballooned to the throat with gladness, she greeted each and every one of them until her voice grew sore. It wasn’t that she didn’t have amazing birthdays as Lana—her parents had been excessively doting, and she had no shortage of friends. It was more so that her [Persona] was reacting all on its own. Euphemia Fontaine, so it seemed to Eppie—had never experienced a birthday party.

The grimness of this realisation was such that Eppie had to turn to [Act Natural] to stop herself from becoming an emotional wreck. With trembling lips, she threaded through her friends and adopted family with care, holding their hands, exchanging hugs, nodding and laughing, then hugging them again. She hugged Miss Filmore the hardest of all, for being her unsung angel. Being loved by this many people at once, it turned out, was its own kind of exhaustion—but one she was glad to experience.

They ate from a laden buffet table with far too much food, after which came the part of the night when the gifts were given. Some of the gifts were enormous, others were in petite boxes wrapped with ribbons. To Eppie’s immense delight, the very first and the largest gift was from the most reclusive of her friends, Armand Amar.

To Eppie, my Muse. The inscription read simply and cleanly.

When Eppie opened the wrapping a little, she immediately saw that this was the very painting Armand had withheld from her—the one from the Santa Monica pier. It was finished now, dried, cured, and coated with a protective varnish. Such a work—the virgin work of a future artist of national renown—held its weight in gold to collectors and fans alike. That Armand gave it to her so freely spoke of his devotion and generosity in ways that were more than just words.

The second box Curon handed her was from another guest who could only send her feelings through the gift of giving. She did not need to open the box to recognise the logo of Vittoria Conti atelier, nor did she feel that flashing her friends with a potentially $4000 dress was appropriate, so she expressed her love and moved on. Vaughan’s gift was equally eye-watering, and Eppie felt guilty for mistaking the subtle packaging for subtlety. The gift was a choker, the type that old-fashioned high-society ladies wore with their bare-shouldered dresses. In the white-gold setting, there sat an enormous milk-honey cat’s eye gem that followed the viewer’s gaze as they moved.

A gift from my husband, given on my sixteenth birthday. I wore it once. We have no children. Now, it’s yours.

Eppie’s throat closed up. It was a personal item. One that was near irreplaceable. Like the dress, she handed it back to Curon for safekeeping. Her room at LAPA had no safes—not to mention someone could come and go as they pleased.

Curon patted her shoulders. “You were supposed to wear these,” he said. “Alas, you were injured…”

Ah… Eppie felt vindicated by how much sense Curon’s decision made.

Thankfully, the rest of her gifts were more pedestrian. Lim gave her a plushy made in the likeness of Mr Chin, which she hugged and kissed. Chelsea gave her handmade jewellery, which she loved. Lucy gave her a signed, limited edition novel that she’d been touting for weeks. Her roommates gave gifts, with apologies, because their parents forbade them from going to strange Hollywood parties. Then came the less personal gifts. Chocolates, mugs, CDs, the type of gifts that were representative of middle-school memories.

She thanked them all, then hugged them all, wondering with growing curiosity what Kellie and Kel were planning with Curon, since their names had been absent from the list of physical gifts. Come to think of it, Eppie realised, she had received chocolates from the Arriaga family, but not Zara herself.

Her anticipation reached its peak when the cake returned from the kitchen with sixteen candles burning unevenly, wax already dripping onto white fondant. Her father pulled her into an enormous hug before the song could start and gingerly swung her by her good shoulder, lifting her tiny body off the floor.

“Let’s do this,” he grinned at her, his voice rough with emotion. “I’ve got a flight in three hours.”

They sang the old Happy Birthday, Kellie’s voice soaring over the rest. Her friends from LAPA stopped singing halfway, too star-struck to continue. After the hip-hip hurrays, Eppie blew out the candles with a single breath, and dearly wished that her [Causality] would continue to bring joy to the many and to keep her [Persona] serviced for twelve more months.

Once the cake was divided, her father signalled the DJ, cut the music down to a throbbing ambience, then moved Eppie to the middle of the dance floor.

He pulled up a chair and made her sit so that she was facing Kellie and Kel.
On cue, the music picked up in both volume and jazziness.
Eppie sat in the fold-up chair, ankles crossed and feeling suddenly and inexplicably vulnerable.

She looked at Kellie and saw that the singer was shaking herself out, as if preparing for a performance. She looked at Kel, who looked pumped as all hell and was taking short, quick breaths.

Curon looked smug.
She understood the look to mean that her father was feeling very pleased with himself.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Considering Kellie’s usual choice of clothing, and Kel flexing his tight tee…

I swear to God if Kel’s apology is a lap dance… Her mind instantly settled on something her unpredictable father would absolutely demand of a prideful young rapper high on machismo. It made too much sense. Director Curon’s benign-but-vengeful grudgefulness was legendary.

Curon held a finger to her lips before Eppie could speak. “Say no more…”

NO! She wanted to bite the finger. YOUR DAUGHTER IS A CHILD!

Heedless of her inner struggles, her Director-father handed Kellie and Kel a microphone each. Behind the artists, the DJ made the OK sign.