by Max Monroe
Familial guilt stops me. I swear shared DNA is more powerful than the world’s most potent drug. At least, it is when you’re an eternal people-pleaser like me.
“Hey, Em,” I answer finally.
“Ava!” she greets, her voice all chirpy and cheerful. “I’ve been trying to get ahold of you all week! Where in the hell have you been?”
I cringe, spitballing on the fly to come up with a believable lie. “Sorry about that. I’ve been a little busy at work.”
This week at work has been one of the slowest in a while, but there’s only so much I can stomach talking about Kate’s wedding and my current single status with the female members of my nosy family.
It’s exhausting.
“Mm-hm, sure,” Luke hums behind me, startling me so much I crack my hip into the edge of the counter with my jump.
He frowns and steps forward, but I wave him away dramatically.
Go back to your apartment and wait for me to be ready! I scream with my eyes. I don’t need him listening in on my conversation. After this many years of friendship, he knows me too well, and I’m really not in the mood for someone to call me on my bullshit.
He rolls his eyes as I wave my arm harder.
“So, did you get my email about the bridesmaids’ dresses?” my sister asks in my ear. I turn away from Luke’s painfully knowing eyes and face my cabinets to answer.
“Sure did,” I respond with a nod. “I’m fine with whatever dress you guys think I should wear.”
“Be serious.” Em snorts. “Surely, there’s one dress you like best.”
The plan is for all of Kate’s bridesmaids to wear black satin, but each dress will have a different silhouette —short, long, A-line, mermaid-style, that sort of thing. And since I’m the maid of honor, I’m supposed to choose first.
“They all looked great to me.”
“Ava, tell me which one you like best.”
What I want to say is that I’ve yet to see a bridesmaid dress that I do like. In my opinion, they’re all pretty much hideous, but I bite my tongue and take a kinder approach.
A piece of paper slides across the counter in front of me, Luke’s scratchy handwriting all over it in Sharpie.
Here’s an idea…why don’t you just tell your family the truth?
I shoo him away again and plug my ear to stop the thoughts he’s insisting on putting into my head.
“Um…how about the mermaid-style?”
“Is that the one you want?”
“Yeah. Sure,” I answer and hitch my hip against the kitchen counter and start to go through my unopened mail as a distraction. “I’ll wear the mermaid-style.”
Luke tosses the piece of paper back on top of the stack of unread mail, this time turned over to the other side to reveal another message.
You know…like how you hate everything they think is great and wish they’d find something else to do with their time than bug you about relationships and shit.
I turn around again, desperate to block him out as my sister blathers on. Unlike Luke, Em is easily convinced by my act and dives into the next order of business—Kate’s bachelorette party. She gives me the lowdown on the night’s plans—dinner, drinks, dancing, no strippers—and I’m listening, even chiming in at times with suggestions.
Luke finally gives up and heads back for his apartment, the front door to my place closing with a thunk behind him.
He’s not actually angry or anything—I know, because we’ve been doing this same dance for the last fifteen years of our friendship, and he hasn’t gotten fed up with me yet.
Still hoping for a distraction in the form of the USPS, I pick up a thick envelope that has a Vermont return address of someone by the name of Callie Camden-Baccus. The name takes almost a full second to register, but when it does…my eyes damn near pop out of my head and tumble onto the counter.
Callie Camden-Baccus? As in high school, cheer-demon, soul-torturing, mean-girl Callie?
What in the hell and tarnation is she doing sending me something? And how in the actual f-word did she get my New York address?
Curiosity officially piqued, I open the envelope and pull out a thick, fancy invitation.
You’re Invited!
Lakewood High’s Fifteen-Year Reunion
December 26th, 7:30 p.m.
Ha! There’s no way I’ll be attending my high school reunion. I’d rather have all of my teeth removed and sport dentures for the rest of my life than sit through that event. Sure, I’m still friends with some select people from high school, but I don’t need to go to my reunion to catch up with them. And I don’t need to catch up with Callie freaking Camden—period.
I rip up the outer envelope and scoop the entire contents in both hands, propping the phone between my shoulder and my ear and head for the trash. I step on the pedal to lift the lid, poised to let her rip, but a small piece of paper falls out of the bottom of the stack and flutters to the floor. Brow furrowed, I unfold the fancy, flower-embossed stationery and read the note.
Ava,
I am so excited that you’re going to help plan the big reunion!
Call me so we can figure out all of the details! (555-143-6789)
Can’t wait to see you in December!
XOXO, Callie
Car tires and records screech, and a gap opens up in the space-time continuum. What in the sweet baby Jesus in a manger did I just read?
Help plan the reunion? Me?
No no no no no no. I don’t think so.
Where in the hell did she get the idea that I would?
“Hello?” Em’s voice fills my ear. “You still there, Ava?”
“Shit. Sorry.” I shake my head to pull myself out of my spiral into the world’s worst nightmare. “I just…uh…I got this really weird invitation in the mail, and I’m…confused.”
“What invitation?”
“To my fifteen-year high school reunion.”
“Oh yeah, I think I heard Mom talking about that the other day. I—”
“Hold the phone.” I cut her off before she can continue, my spidey senses officially engaged. “How does Mom know about this?
“I think she ran into someone you went to high school with or something,” she answers. “Why?”
Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me…
“Em, I gotta go,” I say and don’t waste any time ending the call and dialing another—more pressing—number. No offense to my sister, but I have a serious bone to pick with our mother, and justified homicide is the kind of scheduled event that really can’t wait.
I tap my fancy-booted toe and grind my teeth while the phone rings, and when she doesn’t answer her cell, I give my parents’ house phone a try.
Fifteen seconds later, my mom’s voice fills my ears.
“Hey, honey! Did you change your mind about the cute lawyer? I have his num—”
No time for pleasantries about the usual auctioning off of my flesh, I stop her before she can even get started. “Why did I get an invitation in the mail to my high school reunion? And why does it seem like someone has volunteered me to help plan it?”
“A high school reunion? How fun! I never went to any of my reunions, you know. I was too busy raising you girls—” I know instantly by the way she’s hem-hawing around, she’s the culprit.
“Mom,” I interrupt. “Why on earth would you say I would help plan this thing?”
“Who is that, Rose?” Aunt Poppy’s voice chimes in from the background.
“Shh,” my mom hushes her and clears a nervous titter from her throat. “Ava, honey, I ran into Callie not too long ago, and she seemed so excited to catch up with you. I know you’re busy down there in New York, but I also know you’re going to be up here for your sister’s wedding and—”
“And, what?”
“Well…”
“Mom.”
“Well…we got to talking, and she said she was hoping to have a few people help her plan the big reunion, and I guess I kind of…sort of…maybe told h
er you’d be able to help a little.”
I can’t even speak, my throat is so tight.
“It’s a good thing, honey! Think of all the friends you’ll get to see. I really wish I’d gone to my reunions. They’re a milestone—”
“You’re joking, right?” I toss back. I know it’s rude not to let her finish, but the beating of my heart has tripled in speed, and if I don’t find a way to get out of this soon, it’ll give up the fight, I know it.
“Mom, for the love of everything, tell me you’re joking.”
“Ava—”
“High school for you was very different from high school for me, Mom. You know that.”
I wait for her to plead her case or apologize or something, but all she gives me is the raspy exhale of air.
“Rose Lucie, I know you’re still there. I can hear your heavy breathing on the phone.”
“I don’t breathe that loud,” she retorts through a sniffle, and I groan. God. Why does she always have to cry when I get up the nerve to tell even an ounce of the truth?
I try to gentle my voice as I explain all the things she should already remember. “My high school experience wasn’t all sunshine and freaking pom-poms, Mom. Callie Camden was an absolute wench to me. I already keep in contact with the people I want to keep in contact with. I don’t need to see anyone else.”
She sniffles again, and I close my eyes and tap my closed fist against my forehead.
“It’s just such a shame you and Callie stopped being friends when you went to high school. You girls used to be so close when you were young.”
“We stopped being close because Callie stopped treating me like a human, Mom. In fact, she was pretty much a mega bitch to everyone.”
“Ava, language.”
“Oh no, don’t try to avoid this conversation by pulling the language card on me, Mommy Dearest. You just volunteered me to help Jackie the Ripper plan a high school reunion.”
“Ava!” My mother bursts into laughter at my words. “Jackie the Ripper? That’s taking it a little far, don’t you think?”
“Nope,” I respond, popping the p. “In my opinion, referring to Callie as Jack the Ripper’s nonexistent twin sister is me being nice about it.”
“Aw, honey, I’m sorry,” she finally apologizes. “I just thought it was such perfect timing since the reunion is the day after Christmas and you’re going to be in Vermont for the holidays and Kate’s wedding. And Callie seemed so interested in seeing you. I just thought maybe you girls could use this as a chance to move on from all that ugliness. I’m really sorry if I’ve upset you. I would never try to do that.”
My shoulders sag at the sincerity in my mom’s voice. Obviously, I don’t want my mom to feel bad—I just want her not to volunteer me for shit I don’t want to do.
But I’m a mere apple, right under the tree. Rose Lucie is the biggest people-pleasing woman you’ll ever meet in your whole life, and in the lottery of genetics, I won that chromosome jackpot handily.
Knowing she can’t help herself any more than I can, I raise my white flag in record-breaking time.
“It’s fine, Mom.” Honestly, it’s not fine, but I can’t not let it go. I have a best friend waiting for me next door so we can get to our Halloween party. His patience is usually pretty great, but I have to imagine it runs out at some point.
“You promise you’re not mad at me?” she asks.
“Promise, Mom,” I lie. I’m still mad. Totally mad, but I loathe making my mom feel uncomfortable. “All is forgiven.”
“Oh, thank heavens,” she mutters, and I don’t miss the way her voice softens with relief. “And, Ava?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t forget to let Callie know you’re not going to be attending.”
“Wait…what?” I question. “Why do I have to be the one to let her know? Pretty sure that’s your job.”
“What was that, honey?” she asks. “You’re breaking up. I can’t hear you.”
“Mom, I know you can hear me. You’re on your house phone.”
“Ava? Ava? Hello?”
“Mom, be serious. Your house is nowhere near any tunnels.”
“Ava, honey, I can’t hear anything you’re saying right now!” she exclaims, continuing this insane charade of making weird noises into the receiver so I think we have a bad connection. “I’ll call you later, okay? Don’t forget to let Callie know about the reunion. Love you, sweetie!”
Click. And just like that, she ends the damn call.
Fracking hell, Mom!
With a roughness I’ll likely regret later, I toss my cell down onto the kitchen island and groan so loudly, it echoes off the walls.
I didn’t need this in my life right now. Ughhh.
I pace back and forth as I mentally roll through my options.
One, I could demon-dial my mom until she agrees to fix this mess—her mess.
Two, I could just ignore it altogether but risk having to see and/or hear from Callie Camden during the two weeks I’ll be in Vermont for Christmas and Kate’s wedding.
Three, I could call her.
Or, four, I could get on Facebook, finally accept her stupid friend request that’s been sitting there for years and send her a message letting her know I won’t be helping with—or attending—the reunion.
The child in me wants to ignore it entirely and just forget this ever happened, but the adult in me knows that option four is the easiest, most responsible way to handle this circus. Obviously, I know that an even adultier decision would be to call her, you know, like a grown adult woman would do. But I am undeniably childish at heart. And nonconfrontational. And keyboard warrior-ing the shit out of this thing seems like the only option I’m willing to withstand.
Facebook app engaged on my phone, I scroll to my friend requests and locate Callie’s at the bottom of the pile. A moment later, I have a message box pulled up, and I type out a quick, succinct message.
Hey Callie,
I got the invitation in the mail for the high school reunion, and I just want to let you know that I won’t be able to help plan the event. I believe my mother told you I would have time to help, but my schedule is downright crazy these days. So sorry for the miscommunication.
There. All set.
I’m one tap away from closing out of the message box when bubbles appear on the screen. Before I know it, a new message from Callie sits in front of me.
Shit.
Callie Camden-Baccus: Aw, that’s no fun. I was really looking forward to catching up with you! Your mom says you’re, like, working as a secretary at a museum now or something. I was super excited to hear all about it!
Oh, for fuck’s sake, a secretary?
Mind you, I have zero issues with that career; it’s a very noble job to keep someone else organized and on top of things, but I worked insanely hard to move up in my current career. Like, backbreakingly hard, to be honest.
Pettiness and anger flood my veins, and I can’t stop myself from responding.
Me: Actually, I’m not a secretary. I’m one of the main art curators for the Met.
Apparently, she has more to say too.
Callie Camden-Baccus: Oh, that’s so cool! I bet that job is tons of fun! But I’m sure it’s also hard for someone like you, who moved to New York with plans of being an artist. Don’t let that get you down, though, Ava! Everyone back home doesn’t think of you as, like, some failure or anything. We all know it’s VERY hard to make money off art and are still super proud of you. ☺ ☺
Jesus Christ. I was definitely being too nice with the Jackie the Ripper comment.
I exhale a painful breath and stare up at the ceiling of my kitchen. Following my artistic passion has been a bit of a sore spot since I graduated from Columbia, and Callie’s backhanded comments are like salt in an open wound.
Truthfully, I haven’t picked up a paintbrush in over a year. I’m just…I don’t know what I am. Scared? Lacking confidence? Not talented? All of the above? Whatever it is, it’s
been a lot easier to focus on other artists for the time being.
A sick lump feels like lead in my stomach. How is it possible that, all these years later, Callie Camden can still get so far under my skin?
I try not to be a bitter person; I really do. And I make a point to never hate anyone, but damn, leave it to Callie to make that feel like an impossible task. Another message pops up in the thread, and like some kind of masochist, I make myself read it.
Callie Camden-Baccus: And by the way, I was hopeful that you would be able to help plan the reunion but had a feeling you wouldn’t be able to handle it. It’s a HUGE responsibility, and you need to be really good at organization and management to deal with it. I know those have never been your strong suits, so I totally understand that you won’t be able to do it. Thanks for letting me know. And don’t worry, with my years of experience hosting and planning prestigious charity events, I’ll be able to get it all squared away! XOXO, Callie.
There are so many things inside this message that make my brain want to short-circuit.
Instantly, I’m pissed. Beyond pissed, actually.
Like planning a high school reunion is hard? Like it takes some kind of special skill and experience to make sure there are finger foods and a freaking veggie tray?
Get over yourself, Callie. Anyone can plan a reunion.
Before I can stop myself, I’m typing out a response to her bullshit.
Me: You know what, Callie? I just took another look at my schedule, and even though I am super busy with work, I’ll be in town for the two weeks prior to Kate’s wedding. I’m sure that’s more than enough time to help plan a simple reunion. So, scratch what I said earlier and count me in.
There. Suck on that.
Callie Camden-Baccus: Oh my goodness! This is great news, Ava! What’s your email? I will send over all of the details ASAP! And phone number too, just in case I need to call you!