Perfect on Paper: The (Mis)Adventures of Waverly Bryson

by Maria Murnane

  My dad took a bite of a breadstick. “So what’s the big news?”

  I looked down at my hands interlaced on my lap. “I, uh, I want to talk to you about something.”

  “Is this about my vitamin business again? Because I told you that I—”

  “No, it’s not about that,” I said. I clasped my hands tighter. “It’s about something else … something I should have told you a long time ago.”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “About Aaron,” I said.

  “Aaron?”

  “Um, yes, um, about our wedding.”

  He picked up another breadstick.

  I looked at him and bit my lip. I still couldn’t believe I’d lied to my own father about something so important.

  “Um, well, I … I wasn’t the one who called off the wedding.”

  He put the breadstick down. “What?”

  “Aaron called it off,” I said.

  “Aaron called it off?” he said.

  I nodded.

  “But why?”

  “Because … because he wasn’t in love with me.” I looked at the wall over his head as I said it.

  He cleared his throat.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” he said.

  I looked at him, and my voice began to tremble. “Because I thought you’d say, I told you so.”

  “I told you so? Why would you think I would say that?”

  “Because I … because I thought … I thought you thought he was out of my league.”

  He took off his glasses and cleaned them with his shirt.

  “You thought that?” he said, looking at the glasses.

  I shook my head. “I’m not sure … maybe … I … I just always felt like you thought I wasn’t good enough for him.”

  He slowly put his glasses back on, then looked up at me.

  How could you say that? I wanted him to say. How could you think that? I wanted him to tell me how much he loved me, that he was proud of how I’d turned out, even though it had been hard to raise me on his own. I wanted to ask him why I’d never heard him say those words, why part of me still wondered if anyone could ever love me.

  But he didn’t say those words. He didn’t say anything.

  “Dad?” I said.

  “That’s crazy talk,” he finally said to his dessert menu. “Now are we going to order something sweet or what?”

  I sighed and felt the tears welling up in my eyes.

  I looked at him across the table, his eyes buried in the menu.

  Then I remembered what his next-door neighbor had said that day I’d gone to see him and he wasn’t home.

  He’s always talking about you and your big job in San Francisco.

  Maybe he’d said those things about me, just not to me. Just like I’d said so many things to my friends about Aaron, but not to Aaron.

  I looked at him again. Maybe he was doing the best he could. Baseball had been his talent, his future, and now he was just trying to get by with what he had. He was who he was, and maybe it was time for me to accept that for what it was.

  “Dad?” I said.

  “Yes, kiddo?” he said.

  “I … I’m sorry I got in the way of your baseball career.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Baby, don’t you ever feel sorry about that, okay? Ever.”

  “But—”

  “I’m serious, Waverly, I don’t want to hear any more crazy talk tonight, okay?”

  I nodded. “Okay.”

  He looked back down at his menu. We were barely talking, but it was the deepest conversation I think we’d ever had.

  I took a deep breath. “Hey, Dad?”

  “Yep?”

  “Have you ever noticed how hard it is to tell the people you love the most what you’re really feeling?”

  He chuckled. “You know, your mom used to get on my back about that all the time?”

  “Really?”

  “She always wanted to talk about something. That woman could talk the ears off an elephant. Me, I like to change the subject when things get too heavy.”

  Talk about dominant genes on both sides of my genetic equation.

  “So can we have dessert now?” he said. “I know we don’t agree on much, but that’s one thing we’ve always done well together, right?”

  I smiled. When it came to me and my dad, dessert was definitely the easy part.

  Then I told him all about the Honey Notes, over crappy tiramisu, at the Olive Garden.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  A week later, I was sitting in the conference room waiting for the staff meeting to begin. Our admin Nicole was filling me in on her latest boyfriend crisis.

  “Waverly, what’s wrong with me?” she said, tears in her eyes.

  “Nicole, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with you. He’s a total jerk for breaking up with you that way. Seriously, what a tool.”

  She looked up at me. “You think so?”

  “Sweetheart, YES. Anyone who would break up with someone over text message is an ass. Trust me.”

  “You think I should call him again?”

  “NO.” She had cried for two days, then caved and called him. That was a week ago, and he hadn’t returned her call. “You need to forget that jerk. In fact, I think I’m going to make a Honey Note about this one,” I said.

  “You’d do that for me?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  She smiled. “Really?”

  That made her feel better? Hmm … maybe dedicating Honey Notes could be my gift to society, the blind leading the blind, one broken heart at a time.

  Just then Jess walked into the room and clapped his hands. “All right, people, let’s cut the chitchat. We’ve got work to do, work to do.”

  Kent slid a chocolate glazed donut across the table to Nicole, but it didn’t stop and fell right off the table, then rolled along the carpet until it hit the door. Nicole picked it up, dusted it off, and took a bite.

  We all looked at her.

  “But it’s the last chocolate glazed,” she said.

  Jess shook his head and laughed. “Okay, everyone, let’s get this show on the road. Account updates please?”

  Mandy stood up, and I sank down in my seat and stared at my shoes.

  “Adina Energy is in the middle of the launch of its new high-protein energy bars, so we’re pretty busy with that, but we’re right on track,” she said. “And everything’s in order on the JAG account, too. I’m having lunch with Gabrielle Simone tomorrow, who’s our new contact there since Dave Mason left.” She smiled, and I wanted to pull her chair out from under her before she sat down.

  “Good to hear it. Kent, what’s going on with the Honey Notes?” Jess said.

  Kent stood up. “Well, the account is going great. This week we have phone interviews with radio stations in Florida, New York, and Los Angeles, plus with the Boston Globe, the Chicago Tribune, and the Philadelphia Inquirer. We’re also looking at another trip to New York to meet with more of the mainstream magazines that weren’t interested the last time around but have since changed their tune. And we’ve lined up interviews with several popular Web sites and bloggers. The team at Smithers seems quite pleased with our work.”

  “Great,” Jess said.

  Kent rubbed his hands together. “Our only real complaint is the talent, that is, the creator of the cards, a Miss Waverly Bryson. She’s a bit high maintenance and sort of a pain in the rear to work with, to be honest. Is there any way we could reduce her involvement in the account?”

  “I second the motion,” Nicole said. “She’s a major control freak.”

  “Your basic nightmare client,” Kent said, nodding.

  I crossed my arms and made a face. “How funny you all are. Be careful people, or Smithers just may find itself a new PR firm.”

  Kent put his arm around me and patted my head. “Hush, little baby, don’t say a word….”

  “Actually, I have a bit of news on the Honey Notes account that I’d like to share with the grou
p,” Jess said.

  I sat up in my chair. News? What? What? I really couldn’t take any more news.

  “I got a call from People magazine this morning,” he said.

  “And?” we all said in unison, leaning forward in our chairs. People magazine was the Holy Grail for publicists. The briefest product mention could send sales through the roof. It was almost up there with being on Oprah!

  Jess looked right at me and smiled. “They want to include Waverly in this year’s 50 Most Beautiful People issue.”

  A cheer went up in the room, but I couldn’t hear it. I was totally numb.

  “Um, what?” I said.

  “No joke, Waverly,” Jess said. “Apparently there was a last-minute cancellation, and someone at People saw your lovely face in the Honey Notes ads and thought you’d be a great replacement. Assuming that you accept the invitation, they’ll be in touch this week to set up the photo shoot.”

  An understudy for one of People’s most beautiful? Talk about big cheekbones to fill.

  Nicole stood up and started jumping up and down. “Oh my God! This is so exciting! Can I come to the photo shoot? Pretty please pretty please pretty please, can I come?”

  Kent crossed his arms over his heart and pretended to choke up. “That’s our little girl, folks, all grown up. Does anyone have a tissue?”

  Mandy Edwards flashed her beauty pageant smile. “Congratulations, Waverly, that’s wonderful news.”

  “This is truly fantastic,” Jess said. “Our executive team is going to be thrilled.”

  I sat back in my chair in a daze. This was crazy. Me? In People magazine? Along with the Scarlett Johansson and Keira Knightley types? Me?

  I hoped their makeup artist was good. Damned good.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  I remember the three months before my ten-year high school reunion. A trip to the gym every evening after work. No chocolate. No cookies. No poppyseed muffins. A futile effort to cut back on Snickers bars. All to look my best for one superficial evening with a bunch of people I wouldn’t see for another ten years, if ever again.

  I can’t say my crash health kick was all that successful, but at least I tried. Or at least I had the option of trying. And that was for one dinner with a couple hundred former classmates. To get in shape for the God knows how many zillions of People magazine readers out there, I had exactly one week. Six days, actually.

  Six days.

  Crap.

  Oh well. I’d done a lot of thinking about the whole 50 Most Beautiful People thing, and I’d come to the conclusion that I was one of the token not really beautiful people on the list anyway. Have you ever noticed how they always throw a few randoms in there to create the illusion that real people are beautiful too? They’re usually the noncelebrity types: an author, a politician, a chef, the occasional bungee-jumping business executive.

  Add bitter single woman to the list. I could already see the angry letters rolling in:

  “Dear Editors: You really blew it with this year’s list. Where was Céline Dion? Where was LeAnn Rimes? You chose that greeting card writer over those beauties? I’m outraged.”

  “Dear Editors: Waverly who? A discontinued cracker over the lovely Taylor Swift? And where was Miley Cyrus? I’m tempted to cancel my subscription. I hope you clowns get it right next time.”

  “Dear Editors: Knock me over with a wet noodle. You call yourselves the voice of America but leave out Sarah Palin for that bitter Honey Notes lady? Pull your heads out of the sand and get a clue.”

  The letters would be signed by the Wilmas in Nebraska, the Mary Jeans in West Virginia, the Becky Sues in Oklahoma. Legions of desperate housewives who wanted Eva, not Wava.

  I didn’t have a chance.

  The day before the photo shoot, I was sitting with McKenna on the floor of my living room. It was early Saturday afternoon, and we were flipping through issues of Bride and InStyle, looking for possible hairstyles for her wedding. Both our dresses were strapless, fitted, and floor-length. Hers was ivory, mine a dark bluish-silver.

  “How about this one?” I held up a photo of a model with her hair pulled high into a messy-yet-somehow-classy bun.

  She looked at me and nodded. “I like it. Snip it for the ‘up’ pile.” On the floor next to us we had built one stack of photos of models and celebrities with their hair pulled up, and one stack with their hair down. McKenna was still on the fence about which way to go.

  I stood up and stretched my arms over my head. “I’m tired. Want something to drink?” I headed for the kitchen.

  “What do you have?”

  I opened the fridge and took a look. “Um, that would be water, H2O, and agua.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” she said. I couldn’t see her, but I knew she was rolling her eyes.

  I walked back into the living room carrying one glass of water and one glass of agua. “Hey, wanna hit Dino’s for some pizza? I’m starving,” I said.

  “Sounds good to me.” She gathered the stacks together and stuffed them into her massive wedding binder. “I’ve had enough of this for today.”

  A half-hour later, we were each working on our second slice when I saw Andie on the other side of the street.

  “Hey, look, there’s Andie,” I said. “Wasn’t she going to Tahoe this weekend?”

  “That’s what I thought,” McKenna said.

  “Lemme go catch her. Grab an extra plate, will you?” I jumped up and trotted outside to catch up to her.

  A couple minutes later, Andie and I walked back inside Dino’s. I pulled up a third chair and sat back down in my seat.

  “So no Tahoe?” McKenna said.

  Andie stuck her gum on the side of the plate in front of her and reached for a slice of pizza. “Change of plans,” she said.

  “I feel a story coming on,” McKenna said.

  “Well?” I said to Andie. “Does this involve a story?”

  She nodded. “Of course it does. And if you pour me some of that beer, I’ll tell you.”

  “Deal.” I picked up the pitcher of Bud Light. “Now spill.”

  “Okay, but this is pretty bad, so lean in,” she said. We both leaned in.

  She pushed her short blonde hair behind her ears and lowered her voice. “Okay, here goes. Last night I went to a dinner party at my friend Kelly’s house over in Nob Hill. It was four couples in a tiny two-bedroom, one-bathroom apartment on the third floor. She and her roommate, Brenda, invited me and our friend Jill over, and we all brought dates. I brought this cute guy Nick I met at a photography class I started taking. I just asked him on Thursday, which is why I decided not to go to Tahoe.”

  I leaned back and put my hands on the table. “Wait a minute. Your friend Kelly lives with a girl named Brenda?”

  “Yep,” Andie said.

  I opened my hands wide in front of me. “Am I the only one seeing the brilliance in this?”

  They both looked at me blankly.

  “Brenda Walsh? Kelly Taylor? Hello? Didn’t anyone here watch the original 90210?”

  McKenna handed me my beer. “Drink.” Then she turned her attention back to Andie. “Go on.”

  “Donna … Martin … graduates …,” I chanted softly to myself and took a sip.

  “Well, as I was saying, Kelly and Brenda live in this tiny apartment, so they basically filled up the entire living room with a big table they had borrowed from a neighbor. They worked all day preparing the meal for the eight of us: grilled salmon with a caramel glaze, mashed potatoes, and steamed spinach.”

  “Mmm, I love salmon,” I said. “Hey, Mackie, we decided on salmon as an entrée option for your wedding, right?”

  “Yes.” She kept her eyes on Andie. “And?”

  Andie took a sip of her beer. “Well, the dinner was fantastic, and I ate everything on my plate. Everything. If I had been alone, I probably would have licked it. Then for dessert we had chocolate mousse and cappuccinos, and we started talking about which celebrities we think have had plastic surgery.”

/>   I pointed at Andie. “Oh, oh, let me guess who made the list—”

  McKenna put her hand over my mouth. “Would it kill you to keep a lid on it for two seconds?”

  Andie swallowed a bite of pizza. “Well, up to that point, everything was fun and perfect. And then …”

  “And then what?” McKenna and I said at the same time.

  “Shhh. You’re both yelling,” she said.

  “And then what?” we said in a whisper.

  “Everything was fun and perfect … and then … well … and then … the cappuccino kicked in.”

  “Oh no.” McKenna put her hand over her mouth and shook her head.

  Andie nodded. “Oh yes. And it kicked in like a champ. All of a sudden I really had to go. I mean I really had to go. So I excused myself and walked into the bathroom, which was practically on top of the dining room table, and I prayed that their conversation would drown out any inevitable, you know, noises.”

  I covered my mouth with a napkin. “No way.”

  Andie nodded. “Way. So I went into the bathroom, and everything came out okay, but …”

  “But …?” McKenna said.

  “But it was huge. I mean HUGE.”

  McKenna crossed her arms and put her head down on the table, totally cracking up.

  “I mean it was so big that when I tried to flush it, it wouldn’t go down. It just floated there,” Andie said.

  “No way,” I said again.

  “Way.” Andie nodded and took another sip of her beer. “I tried to flush the toilet three times, but the damned floater wouldn’t go down. And right on the other side of that door was my date and six other people, and I didn’t want them all to hear the toilet flush, like, twelve times, ya know?”

  McKenna was still facedown on the table, her shoulders totally shaking.

  “So what did you do?” I was laughing so hard I barely got the question out.

  Andie shrugged. “I fished it out, wrapped it up in toilet paper, and threw it out the window.”

  “NO WAY!” I put my hand over my mouth as I realized that everyone in the restaurant was looking at me.