Emily’s Entrée
 
Emily Entrée had never been on anyone’s guest list. People tended to like her plenty—they just didn’t notice her. She wasn’t the kind of girl who made an entrance; she was the one who quietly appeared near the snack table in a starchy dress half-blended with the wallpaper.

It was Friday evening again; she’d been watching a glittering party through the frosted windows of her neighbor’s house for ten full minutes! Clutching the invitation she found wedged in her mailbox—addressed to “E. Entree.” She figured it was a joke, but tonight Emily decided to believe it was meant to be.

When the doorman didn’t find her name on the list, she was politely asked to leave. Emily nodded. She took a drive around the block. And as she approached the house in her car, a spark of mischief flashed in her mind.

She lined it up. She threw it in reverse. She hit the gas, hard. The garage door gave a horrified shriek and crumpled inward upon itself. Everyone heard the crash. The music stopped. The host screamed. Someone fainted. But Emily, dazed and mortified, climbed out of her car wearing a sparkling orange jumpsuit and holding a bowl of guacamole she’d ground up just in case.

And then there was a miracle: the bowl landed squarely in the host’s arms, and remained miraculously intact. People gasped. Many clapped. Then a second miracle: the house DJ, scrambling to fill the awkward silence, accidentally played one of Emily’s favorite songs—the song we’re hearing right now!! As the basslines ripped up from under the floating melodies, Emily looked upon the room with a captivating gaze. The gravity of what she had done was being pounded in by the music. She broke in; She crashed hard; She made them love her for it—and now the bass was pounding their faces in with it so thick all they could do was to try and breathe.

Then the third miracle: someone recognized Emily from a viral video where she had single handedly embarrassed a king and destabilized a major European nation (the misunderstanding was later resolved, of course). Suddenly, people wanted to talk to her. They wanted to know her story. They wanted her guac at any price. Emily laughed, danced, and—without meaning to—became the magnetic center of the entire evening.

By midnight, Emily Entrée wasn’t just at the party.

She was the party.