by Anne Wagener
My intestinal groundhog perks up in his burrow. He gives a nose wriggle that says, “Me no likey.”
Husband and wife discuss the mechanics of a Facebook invite, nodding like bobbleheads. They look a bit disturbed—more like evil twins than husband and wife.
I stand up from the broken chair and creep toward the door. “Shouldn’t you be rehearsing?” I peep.
Susan looks up at me. “You don’t think we should invite him.” Stating, not asking.
I shove my hands in my pockets and give a half-shrug. “I mean, if you want to—”
“You have an opinion. Say it.”
Brandon stands up and slips out of the room, returning a moment later to exchange a tray of milk and cookies for his trumpet. Only because they look like they’re going to slide off the lopsided bookcase, I take a glass of milk and four cookies.
“I’ll leave you ladies to it,” Brandon says. The trumpet music resumes in the next room.
“Piper?” Susan crosses her arms, looking matronly.
“Okay. No. I don’t think we should invite him.”
“Why not? If they’ve got nothing to hide, there’ll be no harm in it.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “It just feels too . . . invasive. I can try and find out more at the shower, maybe talk to Holly and Charlie about Blaine. Maybe you could ask Charlie, too?”
“I told you before, if I try to get him to open up, he only shuts me out more. Big Sister Polarity. It’s a law of, like, physics.”
She spins around in her desk chair, apparently the only functional piece of furniture in the room. I feel like I’m in a funhouse. Or a madhouse.
I take a deep breath. “I don’t think we should invite him.” I look at the floor. My toes always point toward each other, as if bashful.
Susan buries both of her hands in her hair, as though searching for something lost, and then pulls them both out. “I’m just freaking out. Why don’t you go home and get some rest? I’ve got to practice anyway. I’ll text you tomorrow.”
“So you’re not going to invite him, right?”
Either she doesn’t hear me or she ignores me. She’s already lost again in Facebook land.
Bridal showers are a cycle of revenge. Why else would you make a friend receive a completely impersonal gift (“Hope you’ll think of me every time you use this citrus juicer—or not, that would be awkward”) and wrap herself in toilet paper while pretending it’s a wedding gown? Are we in an insane asylum? No, this is life in your twenties. Buckle up and don that oversize foam engagement ring, ladies, it’s going to be a wild ride.
Maybe I’m soulless, but I believe that wishing someone happiness has nothing to do with stuff. Or maybe I’m bitter right now because my budget only allows for ramen and peanut butter. I’m one glass of OJ ahead of scurvy.
I shove my notebook back in the glove compartment, grateful to have a few minutes of writing time before the crazy begins. Wulfie and I are parked in Lena’s driveway for the co-ed shower. That’s what all the kids are doing these days: co-ed showers. Sounds more fun and scandalous than it is.
The past week has been a whirlwind of planning: collecting RSVPs, purchasing decorations, calling all over town to find available vendors on short notice. Mentioning Lena’s name seemed to help significantly. There won’t be a theme—according to Lena, themes are trashy. But, as she told me with thinly veiled condescension, “For you, dear, you might say the theme is ‘classy.’ ” She said this while giving my thrift-store outfit an arctic once-over.
Lin helped me find my dress for the shower in an evening of Goodwill-scouring. It’s a simple, slinky cut with a scoop neck and beaded fringe. He stood outside the dressing room and thumbs-upped or thumbs-downed each choice. It was just the two of us—Steve was cheffing—and I relished the BFF time. I wish he were here now, but I couldn’t figure out how to finagle it. We agreed the bringing-a-gay-man-to-make-the-love-interest-jealous thing was so nineties. “Plus,” he said, “Charlie would probably fall for me, and that would be hella awkward.”
Lin suggested I invite Brick instead—“Imagine Charlie’s expression when you appear on the scene with that hunk of man!”—but he was on Smithsonian duty. Brick was, however, devastated to hear that my man friend from the Portrait Gallery was involved with someone else. He offered to kick any ass necessary when he wasn’t busy guarding the nation’s treasures.
So here I am, going stag to the shower. I sigh and pop the trunk; it looks as if Wulfie looted and pillaged every craft store in town. Which is pretty much what happened. I unload the decorations and begin traipsing toward the house with my quarry.
Anna greets me at the door with a smile. “You came back for more.”
“God help me, yes.”
She holds out her arms to take on part of my pastel-colored burden, and we begin our trek through the house. I momentarily wish I could turn to stone and lounge here in the lobby with the marble Adonises.
“How are you?” I ask Anna.
She shrugs. “I am here.”
“I know what you mean.”
We reach the kitchen and begin setting down the bags and organizing their contents.
“I wish I could shovel more dirt to you,” Anna says, “but I have not seen or heard anything. She has her panties on straight for now.”
“Eh?”
“Panties are not in a twist, so to speak.”
“Ah. I think mine are, actually.” At Lin’s urging, I’ve attempted a thong. “You can’t let Charlie see your VPL!” he said as, fresh out of the Goodwill dressing room, I sported a granny-panty outline. He explained that “VPL” stood for “visible panty line,” and I had one that was visible to any satellites currently orbiting the Eastern Hemisphere.
“Who knows how the night will go,” Anna says, winking at me as we pull piles of paper lanterns from the plastic bags. “Maybe you will steal the groom away—problem solved.”
Just thinking of Charlie sends an unexpected jolt of desire through me. I wonder fleetingly if my feelings will be visible to all involved, an emotional VPL.
In the second-floor bathroom, I hang my dress on the back of the door, where it looks like a second skin. I pretend I’m a superhero, pausing for an outfit change so I can suit up my secret powers. Once into the dress, I get out my makeup bag and styling iron and set to work, first taming my hair and then adding some flapper-inspired waves. I line my eyes and apply a coat of bright red lipstick. When I’m finished, I blow myself a kiss in the mirror and let my hand fall back by my side. The false enthusiasm quickly melts into a sense of dread. At least the fact that Susan has a concert and can’t make the shower lets me feel like I have space to breathe, to do this my way.
The last piece of my outfit—the glittery heels—wait dutifully for me by the door, but I’m not quite ready. Instead, I slip over to the bathroom window and push the sheer curtain aside with a pointer finger to admire my handiwork. The porch has morphed into a cocktail lounge with high-top tables spread throughout, each glittering with a glass-shrouded candle. As I was setting up, Holly and her mother took turns appearing on the upper porch and hollering down that I should move this or that five centimeters to the right.
With the darkening sky, the lanterns and candles add a soft glow, creating a dizzily romantic atmosphere. The pond shimmers below, obscured by the occasional waterside tree that, in the fading light, looks like the silhouette of a pensive water-gazer. Fireflies wink above the water’s surface, creating circles of sporadic light. I look out for a moment more, taking in the scene.
In the middle of a meditative breath, I’m interrupted by a voice so clear it sounds like it’s coming from behind the shower curtain. I pull the curtain back, but all I find are hotel-style shampoo and body wash dispensers. My peripheral vision catches an air vent in front of the window. Voices rise through it and echo across the tile floor. An instinct unique to
my new role as supersleuth has me squatting down noiselessly and pressing my ear to the vent.
“This is part of the deal,” a woman’s voice says—unmistakably Holly’s.
“What deal? There’s no deal! This is our future. And I didn’t sign up for that.” Charlie. My heart pounds.
“What else are you going to do? Serve coffee and work on your stupid screenplay?”
A sharp intake of breath. “Let’s talk about this later.”
“There’s nothing to talk about. Grow up! You need the job of a grown man, not a fucking adolescent.”
“I’m not selling out.”
“You can tell her yourself, then.”
“I will. But right now they’re waiting on us outside.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
A door slams. Another sharp intake of breath, followed by a prolonged exhale. I imagine Charlie in the room below me, hands spread on the counter, staring himself down in the mirror. Maybe his tie dangles over the sink, soaking up little droplets of water.
I try to peer into the vent, but I can’t see anything in the room below. If only I could send a word of comfort down.
My mind’s spinning. My intuition is going off, more cowbell than bell tower. All I get is a disconcerting clunk-clunk.
I stand up, smoothing my dress, my heart racing as if I were part of the fight. Dabbing powder across my cheeks, I try to collect myself. My superpowers seem more inaccessible than ever, even though the woman returning my gaze from the mirror looks almost poised.
The shower is a blur of more activity. One of the caterers goes home sick, so I’m nominated to circulate a tray of mushroom-and-fig something. I offer one to Holly first, but she doesn’t notice me until I’m practically on top of her with the tray.
She’s gazing out over the pond. Her eyebrows, usually at sharp attention, have relaxed a bit, giving her face a thoughtful, sad look. I want to be furious at her, but the longer I watch her, the more I sense a vulnerability she normally works hard to hide. As if she’s a magician continuously performing feats of misdirection. Or hiding her true self under a cup, then moving two or three identical cups in tandem to keep you guessing. For the briefest second, she’s lifted up the cup to reveal what’s underneath.
“Holly, can I ask you something?”
“Hm?” she says, her gaze still on the pond.
I take a deep breath. I’m pretty sure subtlety isn’t one of my superpowers, but I’d like to have one last go at it. “Susan was talking the other day about a neighbor named Blaine. Should I have invited him?”
Now she turns, but instead of looking at me, she glares at my tray. “What you should be doing is distributing the hors d’oeuvres in the northwest quadrant of the porch.”
“Right. Sorry.” I’m tempted to curl the tray against my chest and release it toward the pond like a giant Frisbee, but instead I walk away.
As I step around two men in suits ping-ponging political buzzwords to each other, Charlie catches my eye across the porch. He’s leaning an elbow on one of the high-top tables and looking incredibly dapper. He’s rebelliously worn a suit jacket over a T-shirt, along with his red Chucks, which are a no-go in Lena’s dress code. Our eyes meet, and the rest of the party seems to freeze-frame until the buzzword brothers flank me, plucking tarts off each end of my tray. They look like a comedy duo: One is short and round, the other tall and lean.
“Young lady,” says Suit #1, a fig seed lodged between his front teeth, “could you help us settle an argument?”
I glance around nervously for Lena. I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to be consorting with the guests. “I should probably—”
“This will only take a moment,” Suit #2 interrupts with his mouth full.
I start to protest, edging backward to avoid masticated fig debris, but they move in front of me. “Tell me,” says Suit #1, “what are your thoughts on the trade embargo in—”
“Gentlemen!” Charlie emerges between the men. “Pardon the interruption, but you’re creating a mushroom-and-fig embargo on the other side of the porch.”
The suits step back, caught off guard. Charlie holds out his hand toward me. “If you’d be so kind as to bring those tarts to the northwest quadrant?”
He guides me past the suits, his hand on the small of my back for the briefest second before he seems to realize it shouldn’t be there. He takes the tray from me instead, nearly clonking a woman with a beach-ball-sized hat as he sets it on a nearby table.
“Thanks for rescuing me. May I repay you with a mushroom-and-fig thingy?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “As appetizing as that sounds, I’m watching my figure.” He smiles for the first time this evening. I smile back, thankful that the Charlie I know is somewhere inside this stressed-out groom shell. I’m so relieved to see him smiling that I don’t dare bring up Blaine. What do I know for sure, anyway? I want to ask instead about the conversation I overheard in the bathroom, but not knowing how, I start with: “How are you?”
“Hanging in there. Not really my scene. How about you?” His gold-flecked eyes take a meteoric cruise from my stoplight lips to my beaded dress fringe.
“I’m hanging in there, too.” My face feels like it’s turned the color of the sugar beet hors d’oeuvres. Now that the tray’s out of my hands, I don’t know what to do with them.
Charlie’s face is flushed also. “This whole party, I can’t stop wondering.”
“Yeah?”
“What’s your word today?”
I sigh. “I don’t actually have a word today. It hadn’t even crossed my mind.”
Beach Ball Hat passes by us, and Charlie and I exchange a meaningful look. “Actually, maybe I do have a word for you,” I say.
“Yeah?”
“Macrocephaly. It’s an unusually large head circumference.”
Charlie rewards me with a laugh. Making him laugh feels better than any espionage I might otherwise be doing.
When the laughter dies down, we end up just staring at each other.
“You look incredible,” he says, lowering his voice. He steps closer to me, his fingers brushing mine.
My body reacts first—my fingertips skim his, exploring them. The string lights seem like stars that have descended on us, constellations nestling together, dizzyingly close. My fingertips work their way up to his palm, where I imagine touching his love line. He closes his hand around mine.
Then my mind catches up, producing the flash-card facts: This is a wedding shower. I’m a bridesmaid. In Charlie’s wedding.
I pull my hand away just as I catch sight of Lena over Charlie’s shoulder. She’s barreling toward me, making a subtle but brisk motion that indicates I’m to pick up the tray and get on task.
“Better go.” I pick up my fig Frisbee, my fingertips still tingling. Charlie nods, shoving his hands in his pockets.
As it turns out, the buzzword brothers were an anomaly; it’s incredibly hard to circulate food in a crowd of teensy-waisted rich folk. I had to tell several people that the figs were nonfat and organic. As it also turns out, the tray is like a cloak of invisibility. “Excuse you!” I say to a Botoxed woman who almost knocks over my tray. She doesn’t even turn around. As I move away, my gaze meets Anna’s across the patio, and she gives me a weary smile.
After the last tart is finally plucked, I circle back to get Holly’s next directive.
Uncle Rex, Lena’s loose-cannon brother, is monopolizing Holly across a high-top table, drink in hand. I slow my approach as I enter hearing range.
“So, Hollyberry, are you going to let me walk you down the aisle? As it stands, I’m the man of the family.”
“Don’t call me that.” She looks anywhere but at him.
“C’mon.” He takes a long drink, then seamlessly replaces his empty glass with a full one from a passing tray. “Oh, shi
t. You don’t think he’s coming back, do you? For your wedding?” Now she makes eye contact. He returns her gaze. “Give up the dream, sweetheart. The only walk he’ll be taking that day is from the bar stool to the pisser. Trust me. Takes one to know one.”
Anna appears out of nowhere and hooks her hand in the crook of Uncle Rex’s arm. He turns to her, barking that he’s fine, that he doesn’t need babysitting, thankyouveryfuckingmuch.
“I have special drink for you inside,” she says.
“Well, in that case, sweetheart, vamanos. Wait, wrong language.” He lets her lead him away. He winks at Holly before disappearing into the crowd. “Think about my offer.”
Sensing Holly needs some space, I go to Lena for my next directive. She has me exchange my mushroom-and-fig tray for a basket of Wish Cards and commemorative fountain pens.
I’m offering a card to one of Lena’s co-senators when my intuition cowbell goes off. I pivot toward the deck stairs in time for the entrance of a tall blond man. He’s lingering on the final steps, his hand clutching the railing.
Blaine.
Susan invited Blaine.
I hand the senator the Wish Card basket in a fit of panic—“Hold this! Thanks!”—and adjust my trajectory back toward Holly.
My first instinct is to look for Charlie, who’s leaning his elbows on a high-top table behind Holly, stirring his drink like his life depends on it and, every so often, funneling a bacon-wrapped scallop into his mouth. So much for watching his figure.
Holly is at the next table, chatting up Beach Ball Hat. They keep exchanging little amused hand gestures like they’re trying to very politely dispel a cloud of mosquitoes. When Beach Ball moves away and clears a path for Blaine, Holly’s cheeks flush, her lips part.
For a moment, they stand a few feet away, gawking at each other. He blinks at her through the thick-rimmed glasses. He looks exactly like his profile photo—it’s as if he’s stepped off Facebook and into the party. I swipe a sea-salt caramel truffle and stop at a nearby table to eavesdrop; a wad of caramel attaches itself to one of my molars.