Paige Turned

by Erynn Mangum

  A big part of me is pretty convinced that it doesn’t have anything to do with the hug from Luke at the beginning of the summer.

  Something is wrong.

  Sunday morning and I am back at church. After being away for the entire week, it feels good to be back. Especially when I walk into the youth room and find a harried Rick trying to organize the band, type up the words to the songs for the projector, and greet the kids as they come in.

  “Thank God you’re back.” Rick grabs my shoulders. “You can never have another week off again. You’re a faster typist than I am. Can you get these songs in the computer? Brandon decided to use all new songs this week.” He sends our lead guitarist the evil eye and Brandon grins and waves.

  “Hey, Paige. Glad a civilized person has finally arrived.”

  I smile. There’s something good about being needed.

  I take the papers from Rick and start copying the lyrics into the computer. Our computer is old, old but instead of purchasing a new one or saving for a new one, Rick decided that the youth room needed an espresso machine.

  I couldn’t argue with his logic. Especially since the lady who used to make the good coffee in the church’s welcome station moved.

  Army wives. You should never get used to their amazing coffee. Unless you’re married to one, I guess.

  One of the high school girls already has the espresso machine whirring and hands Rick a latte in a girly mug.

  He glares at her but drinks it anyway. “This would be a ten out of ten if you’d put it in a manly cup next time, Brittany.”

  Brittany grins. I smile. The kids love to pick on Rick.

  Kids trickle in over the next fifteen minutes, and once the band starts playing the first worship song, the youth room is nearly at full capacity. I love seeing it like this, but I know the elder board at the church has concerns, especially since we just built a new youth room. We don’t have the money to keep expanding the space.

  “What we need,” Rick told me one time, “is some of those old church pews.”

  “Why?” I made a face. Even the word pew just didn’t sit right with me.

  “So we could squish those kids in there. Have you seen how much space is left in the chair with some of these kids? I don’t know what it is about this generation, maybe it’s the skinny jeans, but I definitely filled out the chair better when I was in high school.”

  I just looked at my huge, barrel-chested, bald-headed boss and didn’t comment for fear of losing my job.

  Rick dims the lights now and the band really picks up the song while I flick through the lyrics slideshow. Doing this used to scare the daylights out of me, but now I could do it in my sleep. Or while drinking a delicious cinnamon latte, compliments of Brittany.

  If that girl ever needs a reference for a job at Starbucks, she won’t have to look far. Every other kid here is drinking her coffee, bobbing their heads, lifting their free hands, and singing along with Brandon and the keyboard player, Ashley.

  After music, Rick teaches for about thirty minutes. Rick is a very dynamic speaker and the kids always eat it up. I love seeing the way they all seem like they really want to be here and not like they are being forced to come.

  Jesus is working in this room and you can just feel it.

  After Rick finishes, the band plays two more songs, and then we dismiss the kids. Most weeks, I go over to the main service, but today is dress-shopping day with Preslee and my mom and they will be here in less than an hour.

  Apparently, someone was very excited for this day to finally be here. Mom texted me at six telling me she was already driving the hour to Preslee’s house.

  I am going to go out on a limb and guess that Preslee was probably less than thrilled that Mom showed up there at seven.

  “Well, that’s a wrap,” Rick says, walking over, stretching his hands out in front of him, and cracking his knuckles loudly.

  “Really? Really?” I ask because he knows that I absolutely cannot stand it when someone cracks his knuckles. It’s the most awful sound in the whole history of audible noises.

  Well. Maybe not the whole history. I once babysat this kid who dragged a plastic Lego giraffe’s feet down a glass door.

  Even the memory makes my back tense up.

  “Aren’t you glad to be back? Admit it. You missed me.”

  “Mm.”

  He nods. “Yep. She missed me. She missed me, ladies and gentlemen!” he announces to the room. Most of the kids are still here talking, laughing, drinking more lattes. There’s a line forming in front of the espresso machine.

  Poor Brittany needs a raise.

  “Staff meeting, nine o’clock tomorrow morning,” Rick says to me. “Be there or be in trouble.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “I have big news I want to run by you.”

  I stand there, waiting for him to run the news by me, but he just looks at me.

  “Well?” I finally say.

  “Well what?”

  “You just said that you had big news to run by me. So. Run it.”

  He shrugs. “But it’s one of my subpoints for the staff meeting. If I tell you now, I won’t be able to cross it off during the meeting.”

  “Subpoints. Please, Rick. I’ve worked with you for the whole summer. You have never actually prepared for a staff meeting. And that’s another thing. It’s just you and me meeting. Why do you call them staff meetings?”

  He shrugs. “Because we’re staff?”

  I hate talking to him. I rub my forehead. Brittany comes over and hands me a to-go cup that smells like cinnamon espresso heaven. “You look like you need this.”

  “Just because she rubbed her head? I rub my head all the time and you never bring me coffee,” Rick protests.

  “No, because she’s talking to you. And you only rub your head to try to get the hair to grow back.” Brittany grins as she walks back to the ever-popular espresso machine.

  “Hey! This is by choice!” Rick yells after her, pointing to his shiny head.

  I look at him while I sip my coffee.

  “Choice,” he says again, nodding to me.

  “Sure, Rick. Whatever you say.”

  * * * * *

  I end up meeting Mom and Preslee at a little breakfast place in town right about ten thirty. Preslee is apparently starving to death because Mom didn’t let her eat breakfast.

  “I gave you plenty of notice that I was on my way!” I could hear Mom in the background of Preslee’s phone call. “You could have chosen to get up and taken your shower then instead of sleeping the day away!”

  It brought back the olden days, listening to the two of them fight.

  But even Mom couldn’t say no to the draw of freshly brewed coffee and a cinnamon roll.

  “I’m getting the farmer’s omelet,” Preslee announces after we’ve been there for a few minutes, then snaps her menu shut.

  I smile at her. Preslee is the only person I know who would stuff herself with a gigantic omelet right before spending the day trying on wedding dresses. When it’s my turn, I can guarantee I will be starving myself the entire morning so the dresses look smaller in the waist.

  All these years of eating straight cookie dough are going to catch up to me eventually.

  The thought of trying on wedding dresses myself someday just brings up thoughts about Tyler, and I try to wash them away with yet more coffee.

  I will be buzzing this afternoon.

  Mom decides on a cinnamon roll and a cup of fruit and sips her decaf, looking at both of her girls at the table and smiling to herself.

  “What?” I ask, knowing what she’s thinking but wanting to hear it.

  “I just love this.” She sighs. “I’ve missed this. The three musketeers.”

  I grin.

  Preslee folds her napkin in her lap. “See? This wonderful, sappy moment would never have occurred if I hadn’t just rolled over and gone back to sleep when you called this morning.”

  Mom rolls her eyes. “Preslee—” she s
tarts but I cut her off.

  “How about we talk about where we are going to be looking for dresses today?” I suggest, trying to start the day on a happy foot.

  Mom grins. “Oh! I made a list!” She digs in her purse and pulls out a piece of notebook paper, then slides her bifocals on her nose.

  “Well, I mean, of course we have to go to Walter Mayfield’s boutique,” she says.

  “Who is Walter Mayfield?” Preslee and I both ask the question at the same time.

  Mom just stares at us over her glasses. “You have to be kidding me. Walter Mayfield? The world-famous designer? He’s up there with Vera Wang and he built a boutique right here in Dallas! Why do you think I wanted to drive all the way up here so badly?”

  “I thought it was to see me,” I say.

  “Well, of course, precious, you were also part of the reason,” Mom says dismissively.

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “He makes wedding dresses for all kinds of celebrities. I saw a special about him on that Style network or whatever it’s called.”

  Preslee opens her mouth and just the way she does it brings up all kinds of sisterly intuition, and I kick her ankle under the table and I talk instead. “Sounds great, Mom! Let’s go there first.”

  “Yay!” Mom excuses herself to go to the restroom and Preslee just looks at me.

  “Well, thanks for that.”

  “You know what, you should be thanking me,” I say.

  “Shabby chic. That’s what I’m going for, if we have to do this wedding. Isn’t like the definition of shabby a preowned dress?”

  Well, she has me there.

  Mom returns right as our food is put on the table and I dig into my French toast. French toast is always so perfect at this restaurant. I have tried to duplicate it a million times at home, and it always tastes terrible.

  Kind of like baseball-park nacho cheese, I guess.

  Mom smiles at me from across the table. “So I have some fun news for you girls. Guess who is going to be meeting us for dinner tonight?”

  I try to think through everyone my parents know in Dallas. Layla’s family used to live in Austin and moved up here, so Mom knows her parents. And a few random friends of mine from the years I’ve lived here.

  “Who?” Preslee asks, digging into her enormous omelet.

  “The men in our lives!” Mom is absolutely giddy.

  I just look at her. “What men?”

  “The men, Paige.” Mom shakes her head. “Honestly, honey. Dad, Wes, Tyler? Remember all of them?”

  Oh, this is not good.

  So not only are things awkward between Tyler and me, now it gets to be awkward in front of my entire family, including my soon-to-be brother-in-law?

  Lovely.

  “Wait, why didn’t Dad just drive up with us? And Wes, for that matter?” Preslee asks, ever the practical one.

  “Dad has a meeting up here tomorrow morning, so I suggested that he just fly up tonight instead, and we can spend the night in a hotel. I’ll just stay here and drive back down with him tomorrow night. So Wes is going to drive up and then drive you back home tonight because I know you guys have work tomorrow.” She grins, obviously proud of her plan. “And I called Rick and got Tyler’s number from him, and he’s going to meet us at dinner tonight.”

  Swell.

  I manage a smile I hope comes across as delighted and focus on my toast and bacon.

  Meanwhile, though, there’s this big wad in my stomach that is just hardening, like I accidentally swallowed a ball of Silly Putty.

  Tyler. I mean, we’ve barely exchanged a sentence all week. I didn’t even see him this morning because I left before second service and he never makes it there until ten minutes after the service starts.

  Tonight is going to be interesting.

  * * * * *

  “Nope. No, too low cut,” Mom says about fifty hours later about the six hundredth dress Preslee tried on.

  Preslee lost interest long ago and sighs and slumps back into the closet of a dressing room to change into the next dress Mom picked out for her. Mom and I are sitting on the most uncomfortable couches on the earth in front of a three-way mirror that keeps informing me that my nose is not necessarily the length I would like it to be.

  Like a quarter of an inch shorter. That’s what I would prefer.

  “Don’t worry, Paige. We’ll find the perfect one,” Mom says, more to herself than to me, patting my leg.

  “Mm,” I say, trying not to yawn. It’s already four o’clock. Preslee hasn’t found a single dress she likes, and we are at our third bridal store.

  In Preslee’s defense, though, Mom has picked out every single one of her dresses. And while Mom’s style sense is pretty good, Preslee tends to be a little more eclectic. Not so much sweetheart and a lot more punk.

  I get up and start flipping through the dresses on one of the racks around the store. This whole place is surrounded by racks and racks of wedding gowns in garment bags. It’s like the walls are made of plastic-wrapped marshmallows.

  I stop at one and study it.

  It’s long but doesn’t have a train. It’s strapless and it has lace on the corseted top, but then it almost looks like the bottom of the dress is made out of feathers or something. It’s about the opposite of a wedding dress that I would pick out for me, which probably means it’s exactly the one Preslee would like.

  I carry it over and knock on the dressing room door. “What about this one?” I ask the saleslady who is helping Preslee in and out of dresses.

  The poor woman looks haggard from the search and nods. “Why not?”

  Preslee emerges a minute later with the biggest smile I have seen on her face so far.

  “Mom,” she says, and in that one word is everything I know my mother ever hoped to hear her daughter say while trying on a wedding dress.

  Mom is immediately crying, and I’m trying not to tear up as well.

  The dress, which looked odd on the hanger, looks amazing on Preslee. The corset top hugs her tiny waist and spills into this huge skirt that has millions of tiny ruffles on it so the whole thing swirls and flutters and looks like a dress made of birds.

  It’s weird and it’s unusual, but then, so is my sister.

  They are a perfect match.

  The lady who works here can clearly see she has just sold a dress, so she goes and finds a veil, and all three of us immediately start gagging the second it touches Preslee’s head.

  “Nope, oh no, definitely no,” I repeat over and over again.

  Mom is shaking her head slowly. I know she’s seeing her dream of lifting her daughter’s veil to kiss her cheek flying away like the proverbial birds who created Preslee’s dress, but even she can tell the veil does not work.

  And Preslee is adamant. “No veil,” she declares and that’s that.

  We buy the dress, pick up a few different wedding magazines at the grocery store, and go directly to Starbucks to discuss all the options for a wedding hairstyle that does not include a veil.

  “How about one of those French-twist things?” Mom suggests, flipping through a magazine while she drinks her tall decaf Americano.

  All we need is some Italian ice, and Mom’s got the makings of that country song.

  Mom’s officially on a new diet since Preslee’s wedding is in only two months.

  “Do you know how much the camera adds?” she griped on the phone the other day. “No more carbs for me. Or dairy. Or fats or sugar or cinnamon rolls.”

  I love how cinnamon rolls are their own food group for my mother.

  When I was a little kid, Mom would bake homemade cinnamon rolls every Saturday morning. I would wake up to the smell of them and seriously, there is no better way to wake up.

  “I don’t think my nose is good for French twists,” Preslee says, and Mom and I both immediately look at her nose.

  She wrinkles it self-consciously. “It’s big.”

  “It’s not big. You’re weird,” I tell her.

  “It
’s bigger than yours.”

  I just shake my head. “There’s no way. Your nose is fine.”

  “Well. I don’t really like French twists.” And there is the real reason coming out, forget anything she said about her nose.

  “What about a chignon?” I love saying that word because I feel all fancy-like. I sip my caramel macchiato and point to a picture of a rather depressed-looking bride in the magazine with the hairstyle. I don’t understand why photographers always take pictures of these girls looking mad. Isn’t it supposed to be the happiest day of your life?

  Maybe that part isn’t really true.

  I look up at Mom. “Was your wedding day a good day?”

  She frowns at me. “Of course. Should it have not been?”

  “No, I just mean, all these girls look mad. Just wanted to make sure Preslee isn’t walking into some kind of trap.”

  Mom starts laughing. “Oh, Paige. Yes. It was a wonderful day.” Her eyes get all soft and faraway as she stares behind Preslee out the window. I’ve seen the pictures of my parents’ wedding. It was classic eighties. Big, permed hair. Puffy sleeves on the wedding gown. My dad was rail thin back then and sported a black mustache.

  “It was supposed to rain, you know,” Mom says.

  “On your wedding day?”

  Mom nods at Preslee. “It was supposed to. I wanted an outdoor wedding so bad. They were not so common back then. My mother tried and tried to talk me out of it, but that’s what I wanted so we planned one. She and I fought miserably over it. I found this beautiful gazebo and rented the space and had everything all lined up when the weather forecast changed to rain.”

  I don’t remember seeing rain-soaked people in the wedding album, so I’m assuming they got the forecast wrong. “But it didn’t,” I say when Mom gets quiet again, lost in memories.

  “It was the most beautiful sunny day,” Mom says, all dreamy. For a romantic like my mother, her wedding day had to be like the pinnacle of her life.

  Except for maybe planning Preslee’s wedding now.

  Preslee smiles at me. “Well. We have even tossed around the idea of doing the wedding in one of Wes’s family friend’s backyard. It’s a big backyard but it will only hold so many people, which is fine by us. Honestly, we don’t want a big wedding.”