The Wrath of Dimple

by Lucy Woodhull

  There once was an actress named Sam

  Who forever seemed in a jam.

  She humped a cute robber,

  ‘Pon boobs he did slobber,

  But the sexy affair was a sham.

  Chapter Sixteen

  This Chapter Is All About Ellen

  The night before Ellen’s wedding, we’d just disbanded the rehearsal dinner when Ellen yanked me out of my waiting cab.

  “Samantha, you’re coming with me.” She slammed the door and waved the now openly hostile cabbie on.

  I smiled for real for the first time in days. Smiling almost didn’t hurt anymore. “Where are we going?”

  “I’m getting my bachelorette with you.”

  “What?” I nearly hopped in my glee, except I wasn’t wearing ‘hopping’ sort of shoes. Not until I’m a lot drunker in them. “Yay! Are we walking?”

  “No. Taxi!” She stuck her arm out and was instantly rewarded with a car. She shoved me, and I narrowly avoided a new injury on the door.

  Once inside, I had to decide what was more important—the safety of the seatbelt versus the greasy mass of yellow I’d have to touch to fasten it. I said, “Why did you get rid of my other cab?”

  She stopped her bouncing and shot me a confused look. “I might be a little drunk.”

  I wished I was. I grabbed some old napkins from the bottom of my purse and cleaned the nasty stuff off the seatbelt clicker. If I’d had liquor, I could have sanitized the whole apparatus. Ellen called out an address, and we were off. She threw her giant purse in my lap, and I squealed. “Do you have anvils in here?”

  “Look inside. Put them on.”

  I yanked the zipper open and beheld the contents therein with wonder. They glowed white and splendid in the dim recess of black leather, like a unicorn on a moonlit night. “My roller skates!”

  “You say Sam doesn’t want you, but he spent half a day going through your moving boxes before he found them for me.”

  It was like she punched me in the ovary. “He’s probably taking an inventory of marital assets since he doesn’t remember. But the joke’s on him—my collection of 80s television show T-shirts is totally worthless.”

  “Stop. No crying. Only the bride is allowed to cry the night before the wedding. Me. This is all about me.”

  I threw my high heels in my bag. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Me.”

  I laced up my skates.

  “Me. All about me. I’m a bridezilla, and all shall bow!”

  I dutifully bowed, carefully avoiding the wadded napkin pile containing the…vomit? Rotting piece of fruit? My relationship was a rotting piece of fruit on an unbuckled seatbelt.

  What the fuck did that mean?

  Exactly.

  The cab started its journey over the Brooklyn Bridge, and I turned around to see the lights of Manhattan behind us. “Can you believe what has happened to us?” Ellen said, low and awestruck.

  I shook my head, unable to find the words. We’d worked hard, but mostly we’d gotten super, super lucky. I always kinda hated it when celebrities cited their hard work as the thing that caused their success. Lots of people work hard—people smarter, more talented, more driven, kinder. Meeting the right people, being in the right time zone at the right time…that one random person who sees what you’re doing and decides to lift you up…these things make all the difference. Most of the hard work in the world is completely ignored.

  I took Ellen’s hand and held it, and we grinned all the way to Down and Derby Roller Disco. We rolled out of the cab and into a crowd of youths dressed in their best Olivia Newton-John circa Physical.

  I’d found my people.

  Looking down at my long-sleeved skater dress in black and white stripes, hot pink tights, and white skates, I grinned, knowing that I was, indeed, fly enough to join this crowd of youngsters. And if I wasn’t now, I would be in a beer or two.

  We threw our crap in a locker and zoomed out into the lane, the Pointer Sisters crooning all the way. For at least an hour, we barely even talked beyond yelled jokes and hip bumps. Sweaty and good and tired, we rolled to a wobbly table by the wood-paneled wall for beer, the healthy way to fight dehydration.

  Ellen began listing my duties for the wedding on the morrow—

  Always have cheese at the ready.

  Ditto on champagne.

  Know the whereabouts of Wife at all times.

  Listen to any and all dirty talk about the honeymoon, and nod encouragingly.

  Keep Mrs Bonner, Rick, Other Rick, Leslie and Jackass YA Author Camilla away from Bride, lest boredom and/or rage cause her makeup to melt.

  Accompany Bride to bathroom and hold up her dress when she needs to wee.

  Tell Bride she is beautiful because it’s true, she is flawless at all times.

  Attend to any fuckups that upset Bride.

  Stab a bitch at Bride’s request.

  I made a note of these in my phone, as I took my matron duties very seriously. We drank more, joked more, drank more. Ellen whipped out her phone and offered to show me some pictures of Nicolette that I was pretty sure she wouldn’t want me seeing. Instead, I pulled Bride to her feet to make a special request of the DJ—we just had to roller skate to Xanadu tonight. It was a rite of passage as much as it was the world’s most glorious song. We’d begun the skate as women, but we ended it as women getting a lot of dirty looks for singing too loudly.

  By the time we collapsed in a heap at the side of the rink, I was so tired and rubbery I felt like a sticky Gumby. But I felt…lighter. I’d backwards-boogied my troubles away, and physical exhaustion was so much better than emotional.

  Ellen’s face hardened into serious mode, and she squeezed my elbow. “Listen, kid. No matter what happens with Sam, you are going to be okay in the end. You’re amazing, and rich, and whoever you do end up with—he’s going to be the luckiest bastard in New York. You remember that.”

  I threw my arms around her. “Thanks, babe.”

  “You know it.”

  “I just—” I pulled away and sighed. “I just thought of us as meant to be, you know? Like, that’s why these crazy adventures happened. Because we were one of those couples written in the stars…against all odds…against all enemies, foreign and domestic.”

  She smiled. “Yeah, I thought so, too.”

  “What? You dump on him at every opportunity!”

  “Nobody will ever be good enough for you! And he’s a dangerous fuckwit. But at least he’s interesting. And you like his penis.”

  “I do. I really do.” I turned to the side and put my head on her shoulder. “I do actually think Nicolette is good enough for you.”

  “Of course you do. She’s the world’s most perfect human being. Even her mistakes are so prettily done, I usually decide that the mistake is better than being correct.”

  “You deserve a perfect goddess.”

  “I do. I really do.” She downed the rest of her beer, belched long and eloquently, and said, “What you have to decide is if you’re going to quietly let him weigh the pros and cons of being with you—”

  “What con?”

  “Or if you’re going to Samantha up, get in his face, preferably with sex, and make a grand gesture expressing how much you love him and want his dick.”

  “I think you’re more interested in his dick than I am.”

  “A cock is like the Loch Ness Monster for me. I understand that the thing holds appeal as an interesting life form, but I don’t want to meet one in a dark lake because it would probably eat me.”

  I lifted my head. “I— What?”

  She threw her empty plastic cup over her head and shook my shoulders. “What are you gonna do?”

  “He already knows I love him.”

  She shook me harder. Damn, she’s so much stronger than she looks!

  She snapped, “Yes, and telling someone you love them once is always enough. All the great poets say that. Remember Shakespeare’s sonnet number sixty-nine, ‘I Told You I Loved You
Once, Like, Five Years Ago, Lady, Now Quit Nagging Me’?”

  “Can you recite it for me?”

  “I’m too drunk to riff in iambic pentameter. I’m just a person, Samantha!” She fell across my lap, and a guilty twinge told me that in twelve hours we would be getting ready for the wedding. Oops.

  I stroked her sweaty brown hair. “Ellen, your big day is going to be amazing. You’re going to live happily ever after and win the first Pulitzer Prize for YA zombie literature.”

  “You may refer to me by my formal title—Queen Magnificence the Sexy and Bookish. And also of the nimble—”

  That was my cue. I left her on the floor cataloguing her accomplishments while I fetched our stuff. She giggled when I put her regular shoes on her, and eventually we made it to another cab, then to her room at the Plaza. We sank into our beds and, for once, Ellen wasn’t talking my ear off in the dark. After a couple of yay marriage!s, she fell asleep.

  Yes, I was going to dazzle Sam at the wedding tomorrow. He would know what hit him—a short, voluptuous hurricane by the name of Samantha.

  * * * *

  Our hotel room was an all-female zoo the next day, as one might imagine. But the first delivery of the day—at noon, once we’d dragged our asses outta bed—was a cart laden with sandwiches, fruit and enough champagne to fill the bathtub. Bridesmaids arrived, Ellen’s mother and aunt, and my mother, who took one look at my now yellow and green face and had to be resuscitated.

  I said, “See? I’m normally quite pretty by comparison!”

  The makeup artist I’d hired for my beauty emergency arrived, and Ellen and I got pampered side by side. I ended up with a half-inch of shellac on my kisser, but I was human-colored by the end. Ellen just plain looked gorgeous, and I told her so, per my official duties. And I fetched her another champagne, because ditto.

  I hadn’t talked or texted with Sam in a couple of days, and I wasn’t even sure if he was coming today. I dressed like I’d see him anyway, with some seriously sheer red underthings beneath my gorgeous ruby beaded matron of honor cocktail dress. It featured a wide scoop neck, long sleeves for warmth, and a poufy skirt, further poof-ified by a matching crinoline. A skinny black velvet belt and black heeled Mary Janes completed the ensemble. I felt like a human lipstick, and I mean that in a good way. My hair didn’t even clash!

  All too soon—that is, before the mimosas had run out—me, Ellen and her mom piled into a waiting limo to make our way to the New York Public Library. Our Bridesmaid emissary sent to check on the setup had told us it was amazing and gorgeous, and holy crap, was she right. The wedding planner shuffled Bride and her peeps into a side room while we waited for the festivities to start. At Ellen’s behest, I crept out to peek into the space where guests were being seated. They were getting married in a room on the ground floor, white columns lifting toward the heavens. A canopy of winter greenery would soar above their heads in the alcove of marble at the head of the room. Red flowers accented every nook and cranny like a fantasy winter wonderland. I actually squealed, it was all so beautiful.

  I turned around to run back to Ellen when a tuxedo-clad form dodged an usher and grabbed my arm. “I thought I knew that squawk of excitement.”

  Sam. I looked up into his eyes, so dark and playful, staring into mine with admiration. They kept scanning downward, then up again, lingering on my sparkly bosom. “Wow,” he said.

  I grinned. “What can I say?”

  “Your bruises are gone!”

  “Nope—just covered really, really well. Yours have nearly faded, though.”

  His hair appeared darker and longer, too, making him look a bit more like Old Sam. He filled out his tux so well that George Clooney might be envious. I resisted—only barely—the temptation to lean around to survey the butt situation, which I knew to be pert in that particular suit. “I’m glad you came.”

  “Of course I was going to come. I have the most beautiful date, and the brides just sorta saved her life.”

  I told my breath not to hitch when he told me I was beautiful, but it did anyway. I’d been used to hearing that daily when Old Sam lived with me. Now? Enough to make me blush. I hid my face downward, not wanting to appear like a pathetic, love-struck puppy. “Well, I’ve got to be getting back to the Bride. Capital B. I saw my mother headed toward her room, and I don’t think Ellen wants to hear her opinions about her dress.”

  “Oh, God.” He adopted a hip-cocked Suzie pose, his voice high and twangy, “‘Your dress is pretty good. It’s only a little lesbian-ey.’”

  I burst into laughter. “She actually asked Ellen earlier, ‘Why aren’t you in a tuxedo? Or is Nicolette the boy?’ I started to explain how that was the stupidest question in the world, but Ellen just said, ‘Don’t bother,’ and handed me some champagne.” I shook my head. “Your Suzie voice is excellent, by the way. Even better than before.”

  “At least part of me is getting better.”

  Crickets.

  Shit. He shuffled, and I bobbed from hip to hip like a blob of anxiety on the ocean. “Well…” I pointed vaguely in the direction of where I needed to go. He waved, and we both melted into a slime pit of awkward.

  Back in the prep room, we were told it would only be a few minutes, so I stuffed my pockets full of tissues for Ellen. That critical mission done, I took Ellen aside. “I know you already have your something blue from your mom, but I wanted to offer my own.” I opened my hand to reveal a one-inch enamel unicorn pin. He was white with a blue mane and tail, and a golden horn. “This was one of my first pieces of jewelry, and my unicorn friend should have it on her wedding day.”

  She burst into tears, and I depleted my pocket stash. Both the makeup artists yelled at me, but Ellen had had so much setting spray launched at her face that her crying didn’t upset anything. While two annoyed ladies dabbed at her kisser, I flipped up her cream, slipper-satin skirt and pinned the unicorn in a seam near her knee. I wouldn’t do to have her sit on a unicorn horn all night.

  Finally, the time of joyous union was upon us, and I carried her train to the back of the main room. It had been decided that both brides would walk the aisle with their parents, and they flipped a coin to see who would go first. Ellen won. She considered it winning because she’d get to watch Nicolette on the walk. I handed Ellen over to her mom and dad, both enormous, genial folks who looked overwhelmed by all the pomp and circumstance. Her dad was already crying, and Ellen smacked him on the shoulder lest he make her weep anew.

  Bette Midler’s Chapel of Love revved up, and I followed the other bridesmaids on my little walk. Next to me stood Nicolette’s BFF, Maria José, in an identical dress to mine. We held hands and were soon at the front of the room, a pair of tittering schoolgirls.

  Looking out at the assembly, a nervousness crept across my skin. I was used to being stared at—that wasn’t it. This moment reminded me of my own wedding, not that long ago. Of me walking down the aisle on my dad’s arm, my legs like jelly because I was staring at him. Because there had been a part of me, larger than I would like to admit, that had thought that I would never get it—the fairy tale wedding. The happily ever after. But I had. For one, whole week before disaster had set in.

  The room gasped, and my head shot up to see Nicolette, resplendent in a pale lilac gown, also of slipper satin, her proud momma and papa flanking her. But my eyes strayed to find him, there in the fourth row. Staring straight at me. The smile plastered to my face started to slip, and I admonished myself even as I directed my attention back to where it belonged. Ellen passed me her bouquet before she took her bride’s hands and the civil ceremony began. I was grateful to be able to stand in formation, staring at Ellen’s butt.

  I fancied I could feel his eyes on me, yet had no way of knowing. Don’t think about him, don’t think about him, don’t think about your wedding, don’t think about his face when he first saw you in the church in your dress, that amazing look that made you feel like you were a supermodel made of magic space glitter.

  Don’t.
Think.

  We all almost made it through the ceremony without crying. Almost. But halfway through Nicolette’s vows to Ellen, Ellen’s dad began weeping and grinning, then he leaned across the aisle and took Nicolette’s mom’s hand, and she started sobbing and laughing both. Then Maria José sniffled, a tear rolled down Nicolette’s cheek, Ellen just went straight into full-on wailing, and I, of all people, was the last to start. The lady officiating started cracking up at the pile of sentimental fools, and the brides started cackling right after that. Thus, the ceremony paused for about five minutes while the entire room roared and clapped. After I’d got Ellen’s face squared away—pocket stash!—and my own, I looked out to Sam. He stuck out like a serious thumb, for he was the one person in the room not smiling, but sitting solemnly, his gaze devouring me.

  Sam had been the one to cry at our wedding. I don’t know why I tend to cry at the inappropriate times, but can mostly keep it together when one is expected to cry. Maybe it’s because my mother had spewed a running monologue that day as we’d got ready, telling me how ugly and red I turned when I cried, and that bad wedding photos would haunt me for a lifetime.

  Sam had cried when he’d said his vows to me. And he’d kissed me in the middle of the ceremony, which was totally against the rules. The photographer had caught it, and everyone had whistled.

  A tear slipped down my cheek, and I smiled it away as if it were a tear for Ellen’s happiness, and not one marking my own grief.

  How had my life changed so completely in the space of, what—three, four weeks? I didn’t even know. It was disturbingly appropriate that Sam should exit my life in just as quick a flash of brimstone as he’d entered it.

  Music from the four-piece orchestra startled me, and the brides, now wife and wife, were kissing. I threw my hands in the air and whooped, the whoop as real and joyous as my heartbreak had been a moment ago. Today was going to give me emotional whiplash.

  I placed Ellen’s bouquet in her left hand, and bent to straighten her train for her victory walk down the aisle. I didn’t dare to glance at Sam as Maria José and I skipped back the way we’d come. In the cooler air outside the wedding room, I took the first deep breath I’d had in hours, it seemed. But no time to reflect, for I leaped into action to wrangle the bridesmaids and the photographer while the wives—squee!—signed the marriage license. We were taking pictures on a grand, wide staircase dotted with red candles and important-seeming hardback tomes. It looked like a nerdy fairyland, which is to say, completely appropriate.