Page 45 of Here You Are

“Help? We don’t need help with anything,” WJ replied.

Ben looks confused. I’m not sure how well he knows WJ, but maybe he thinks she is having a senior moment and can’t remember calling him. “Didn’t you call me, saying you needed help with something?”

“Nope, don’t think so,” WJ responded.

I glared at her.

She glared back, and I got a little scared.

“I think she just wanted to get your opinion on the neighborhood party,” I said, trying to clear up any confusion.

“Well, I think it’s an awesome idea. I would love to be of help in any way I can. I look forward to spending time with both of you. I’m happy to do all of the grilling if that works for you guys. I’d better get back home. I’ll stop by when I have some spare time and get a list of things I can bring.”

“That works for me!” Widow Jenkins responded. “We should do it right in between our houses since I'm hosting, and you have such a nice yard.”

Ben chuckled under his breath. “You know what? That sounds like a great idea.”

He turned to walk away from us, and as he did, he looked at me. And then, he winked. I immediately look away and try to hide inside myself. He jogs down the porch steps and back over to his house as WJ starts singing “Ben and Cassie sitting in a tree…” I swore he heard her and paused.

What. The. Fuck.

So, that begins the insanity of neighborhood block party planning. WJ has me chauffeuring her to every party store in the tri-state area, looking for the perfect Independence Day aesthetic. She has a driver’s license and a car, for the record. Think big, bold, and tacky as hell. I am not here for consultation, however. I am simply for driving, loading, and unloading.

WJ started in on me with “When we get back home, I need you to run over to Ben’s house with the plates to make sure that they will work for the meal he is thinking about making.”

“Lady, they are round and flat and sparkly. I’m not sure why they wouldn’t work.” I sassed back at her.

“Cassie, I don’t have time to be messing around with you. You said you were helping with this party, so why don’t you quit bitching and start helping?”

“Wow, Emilia. I was volun-told that I would be helping with this party, and I know what you're trying to do by sending me over to Ben’s. It’s not happening. He isn’t my type; we don’t have anything in common, and he has way too much baggage. Just because there is one single man born in the same century as me living in this neighborhood doesn’t mean that he is a good match for me.”

I got back a menacing glare from WJ that did scare me a little bit, and she said, “So, when we get back, you’re going to go over to Ben’s house and make sure the plates work. After you unload everything from the car. I’m going to start working on my jello shot recipe, because the ones I have been finding don’t seem to have enough vodka in them.”

We got back to the neighborhood, and I saw the Johnsons out in the garden. There doesn’t appear to be any swingers around. I need to identify a way to think about them that doesn’t include their bedroom activities before the neighborhood party. Also, I need to somehow forget I’ve seen Mr. Johnson’s Johnson. The Thompsons are sitting on their side deck drinking non-alcoholic beverages, and Grass Daddy and the kids are out playing in a sprinkler. WJ thrusts the package of plates at me, and I know I have lost this argument like every argument we have ever had. Looks like I am headed next door.

As I started to approach their driveway, I watched Ben playing with his girls. They are all wearing swimsuits while giggling and running through the sprinkler. The main objective appears to be “get daddy wet” since he’s not wearing a swimsuit. The middle girl saw me approach and, like a feral demon child, she began screaming, “GET HER!” She dove for the sprinkler and pointed it in my direction. I got blasted with water on the top half of my body. I was wearing a thin old t-shirt and jogging shorts, which are now plastered to my body.

Grass Daddy dove on top of her, yelling, “Stop it right now, Linden!”

He got the sprinkler turned off, looked at her and said, “Front steps. Now.”

She sulks away and then looks back at me with a meme-worthy evil grin.

“Cassie, I'm so sorry! She is insane. I don’t even know how to apologize. Can I get you a towel?”

I continued to stand there, mouth wide open, slowly blinking.

“I’ll go get you a towel. Oh my God, I'm so sorry on her behalf.”

He jogged toward the front steps, and I saw him pause by Linden and growl, “You’re on my list, girl.”

When the door closed as he went inside, I seemed to snap out of my sprinkler-induced state of shock. I looked down at my hand and thought, thank goodness the plates are wrapped in plastic, and then I thought, for fucksake, they are paper plates. I looked up, and Ben was rushing out of the house with a bright pink-and-purple-polka-dot beach towel. He handed it to me and grabbed the bag out of my hand.

“Once again, so sorry for her. She doesn’t try to be evil; she was just born that way,” he said with a silly grin on his face.

“Uh, it’s no big deal," are the words I finally manage to get out. “Emilia sent me over here to make sure the plates she bought will work for the food you're planning to make. She is in a tizzy with all of the party planning, and I'm her reluctant assistant.”

Ben looked in the bag at the plates. “Yep, they look like they will work.” He turned around to his kids and hollered at them to come over. “Let me formally introduce you to my girls.”