Free You're Invited by Jen Malone Page A

business plan.
    Sadie—President, Vi—Secretary/Treasurer, Becca—Booking/Advertising
    â€œHow about ‘Queen of Booking and Advertising’?” Becca smooths her straight red hair like she’s ready for us to pop a tiara on it.
    â€œThis is a democracy,” Sadie says. “No queens allowed.”
    I set the notebook next to the flashlight basket, and we all lean in to admire it.
    â€œWe need a name,” Becca says. “Parties 4 U?”
    â€œPlethora of Parties?” I suggest. Then I clamp my mouth shut. This isn’t my business.
    â€œWhat does ‘plethora’ mean?” Vi asks. “How about BVS Parties, or SBV Parties? You know, our initials?”
    Becca giggles. “Those sound like diseases. We should do something less obvious.”
    â€œWait.” I run Vi’s disease names though my head again. There’s something there if I use Rebecca instead of Becca. “RSVP!”
    â€œRS—what?” Vi blinks at me.
    â€œRSVP. Répondez s’il vous plaît. Please respond,” I translate. “The fancy-schmancy French way of saying ‘Hey, can you make it or not?’ ”
    â€œIt’s on the bottom of every invitation. RSVP.” Sadie says the word like she’s testing it out. “It’s kind of . . . perfect.”
    â€œAnd get this: R for Rebecca, S for Sadie, V for Vi, and P for . . . whatever,” I add.
    â€œWe should change it to RSVL. Then you’d have to join because your name is in there.” Becca gives me this sneaky smile.
    â€œYeah, no.” It’s not as if I can change the French language. Also, it’s like a sign. My name doesn’t fit when everyone else’s does, so obviously it’s the universe telling me that I need to concentrate on everything else I already have lined up this summer. Not that signs are really a thing. But if I did believe in them, this would definitely be one, and who am I to argue with the universe?
    I hold the pen over the notebook. “So, RSVP?”
    â€œThat’s perfect.” Vi unfolds her long legs and leans forward in a stretch.
    â€œVery classy,” Becca adds.
    Sadie brushes her bangs out of her eyes and smiles. “RSVP it is.”
    I add the name to the top of our business plan. I mean, their business plan.
    Becca’s phone buzzes and she groans. “It’s Dad,” she says. “My presence is required at the Visitor’s Center tomorrow. I’m supposed to fill in as the guide for the walking tours.”
    â€œWhat happened to Pete?” I ask.
    â€œSaid he needed to clear out of town before the Fourth of July crowds descend on us.” She stands up and brushes imaginary flecks of dirt from her dress. “Better enjoy my freedom today, then.”
    â€œWait, y’all should figure out who’s doing what first.” I write down all of their names under the words Action Plan .
    â€œI’ll make some flyers and ask Mom how to order business cards. And we can pass out the flyers at the Fourth of July parade and cookout next weekend,” Becca says as she hands me my backpack.
    â€œI’ll . . . um . . . well, there’s nomoney yet, and everything we talked about is in that business plan,” Vi says. “Wait, I know! I’ll make a spreadsheet so we can track all the money we earn.”
    A spreadsheet. I could whip that up in two minutes flat. Two minutes that would be better spent memorizing another vocab word definition, I have to remind myself. I tear the business plan from my notebook and pass it to Sadie.
    Sadie carefully folds the pages and stows them in her purse. “I’ll put together some planning worksheets so that they’re ready to go once we book a party.”
    I cap my pen and load everything back into my backpack. Then we climb the steps, and I lock up the Purple People Eater .
    â€œTo RSVP!” Becca