The Lonely Hearts Club by Brenda Janowitz

directly as it comes down the slide (which was not my mother’s intention, I assure you, what with the littlebamboo shot glasses she’s lined up next to the slide). On the wall across from where the bands usually set up, where Chloe and I scratched our initials into the wood, there is a carving station with prime rib and roast turkey. At the prime rib station, I see Andrew loading up a plate with tons of food while Barbie stands by his side, nibbling on some celery and drinking a Diet Coke. I can tell by the look on Andrew’s face that they have just been bickering. They are always quarreling with each other—I once told Andrew that they have a very Sid and Nancy-esque relationship. If only he would just get on with killing Barbie already, it might save me the misery of being a bridesmaid (she’s already hinted that for the bridesmaid dresses she’s leaning toward peach).
    A waiter breezes by me with a tray of tuna tartare and my father and I both grab one, my father noting that for “all this money we’re paying them,” the least they can do is provide cocktail napkins for the hors d’oeuvres. All I can think is, How much money did my mother pay the Delancey for this space? I will be forever known as the wannabe rocker whose mommy paid tons of cash to throw her a birthday party at the Delancey. I can never show my face on the Lower East Side again .
    Frankie, my old lead guitarist from the Lonely Hearts Club Band, approaches us. He shakes my father’s hand and gives me a hug and a kiss. We haven’t even spoken since Billy died and our band broke up. He graduated right after Billy died, so I haven’t even seen him in those two years.
    “I’m so happy to be here, Jo,” he says. “It’s good to see you. Happy birthday.”
    “It’s great to see you, Frankie,” I say, and I am surprised to realize that I mean it. “How are you doing?”
    “Great,” he says. “Really great. I married Stacey, and we’re living out in Jersey now.”
    “I always knew you two would get married,” I say. It’s kind of crazy to think that they’re only two years older than me, but they seem to have everything together. “You were a great couple. Is she here tonight?”
    “Right over there,” he says. “She’s the one accosting the waiter with the potato pancakes.”
    I spot Stacey across the dance floor. As she turns around and begins walking toward us, I see that she is pregnant. Very pregnant. Stacey has a massive tattoo across her stomach, which was, two years ago, incredibly sexy because she was a yoga instructor and had amazing abs. I can only imagine what that tattoo looks like now.
    “Here’s my baby,” Frankie says, pulling her to him for a kiss.
    “Here’s your baby,” Stacey says, stroking her tummy and laughing as she reaches over to me for a hug. “Happy birthday, Jo.”
    The baby talk is freaking me out a bit—this is a couple who hated last call at 4 A.M. more than any of us. It’s strange to see them settled down, especially so young. As we talk, Frankie tells me that he’s teaching music at a community college out in Jersey (who would have guessed that a guy with seven piercings would get a respectable teaching gig?) and Stacey’s running a yoga studio in a strip mall.
    “What are you up to these days?” Frankie asks.
    “Still working on my music,” I say. “Fighting the good fight.”
    “Keep on rocking in the free world,” Frankie says. “Wasn’t that our motto?”
    “It was,” I say. “So, do you ever hear from Kane?”
    “Naw,” Frankie says. “I haven’t. Have you?”
    “No,” I say. “Sorry I brought it up. Have you checked out the caviar bar yet?”
    “Not yet,” Stacey says, rubbing her belly, “but there’s sushi over there by the carving station, and it’s killing me!”
    “I could use a drink,” Frankie says, and we part ways.
    Frankie heads over to get a drink and I make my way to the caviar bar. As embarrassed as I am about the sheer spectacle of the