We were nice enough to hold a sÈance and bring Benjamin Franklin back to life for our book club costume party, and all he did was totally rain on our parade. And it wasn’t one of those summertime drizzles made of confetti, rice and high spirits, either. It was more like scattered showers of extreme geezer discontent. I turned to my BFFs and I was like, “Beep, beep, beep . . . Severe Blunder-Storm Warning, we totally pulled a blooper inviting this bloke’s spirit to our happening bash. He’s totally gonna cramp our steeze in front of the fellas.”

“Whateverith, ladies,” B. Franks was all up in our faces as soon as he structuralized before us from an ominous vapor. “I wasn’t even your first choice for dead celeb show-up! Don’t act like you don’t know. I feel like the secondest of fiddles. This is totally un-bomb.”

“Stop being such a wet blanket, Benjamin Franklin. Just be happy we invited you anyway!” My second-best friend, Darlene Sharlington gave it to him good. “Yeah, we tried to summon Kurt Vonnegut to our rad book club party first, but we just found out he’s still alive, okay? You should be happy you’re deceased, Benjamin Franklin, ’cause this is the hottest gathering of Bridgemont High to date, and we’re not gonna let your sour sentiments ruin it.”

“Booooring!” B. Franklin kept trying to psych us out of having a good time. “What kind of a party is this, anyway? You don’t even know what festivity means. I mean, where’s my Jacuzzi full of golden pennies? Where’s my novelty lightning rod? Where my bitches? And where, in God’s name, is my opium pipe? Huh?” B. Franks slapped his hands across his chest.

“OMG, Franklin. Chill the funk out,” Gabby Rogers, who I don’t really like but had to invite because she promised to bring three bags of hint-of-lime chips, stepped up to defend our club celebration. “Rest assured that when you’re seen here with us, your buddies back in the grave or whatever will totally be jealous. So just have a Jello shot, relax, say a few smart things when the rest of the gang comes over and try not to embarrass us too much.”

“Oh, and BTW,” second-BF Darlene chimed in, “The theme of the party is Deconstruction?”

“You told me it was Foreshadowing!” I cried, knowing full well that my costume was totally off-topic. “I’m so embarrassed!”

“A penny saved is a penny earned!” B. Franklin chimed in.

“Good, good.” Darlene soothed him. “You’re getting into the theme. Meeting adjourned!”

Franklin ended up with a lamp shade on his head, and I ended up in my room, mortified, writing in my blog:

“Dear diary, I’m feeling faint. I wish Ben Franklin would die . . . again.”