It was Tucker, but his voice was coming from the bathroom.
“No . . . Melissa . . . listen. I’m serious about this. . . .”
Abby turned her head toward the bathroom. Melissa? Blood started to pound through her veins.
There were a few more muffled words and Abby crept down the hallway to hear better.
“Melissa . . . please . . .”
Please? Please what? Abby thought. Was Tucker cheating on her sister right in her own house?
Her foot hit the floor and the board beneath her let out a loud creak. Abby flew into her bedroom across the hall and quietly closed the door. She held her breath as she heard the bathroom door open, saw the shaft of light in the crack between door and floor. Finally it closed again and the light was gone. She heard Tucker saying goodbye and then waited as he walked back downstairs. Only when she heard the door between the residence and the Dove’s Roost close was Abby able to breathe again.
She walked shakily over to her bed and sat down. She knew it! She knew Tucker was too good to be true! Oh, God. Why did I have to come upstairs? Abby thought.
But then . . . wasn’t it better this way? If she hadn’t come upstairs just then, she never would have found out who this guy really was. Sure Carol would be crushed for a while, but that was infinitely preferable to hitching herself to a cheater, right?
Abby leaned back on her bed and went over everything she had just heard. She knew exactly what Noah would say. Maybe Tucker’s actions were suspicious, but she hadn’t actually heard anything that proved his guilt. He hadn’t said “I love you” or “I need you” or “Meet me down at the docks for some mad, crazy sex.”
I need more proof, Abby thought. I just have to find out what he’s up to for sure. Find out who Melissa is. And once I do, Carol will thank me. She’ll thank me for stopping her before she makes a seriously huge mistake.
Abby’s list of songs NOT to play at the wedding:
“Celebration” (Come on already)
“We Are Family” (Enough. We know you got all your sisters. We’re very happy for you. Move on.)
“Hot, Hot, Hot” (No one looks good doing the conga.)
“I Will Survive” (Why do they play this at every wedding? It’s a breakup song. Are the bands trying to be ironic?)
All songs with accompanying choreographed dances, including, but not limited to:
“Macarena”
“Electric Slide”
“The Chicken Dance Song”
“Locomotion”
“The Twist”
Any and all love songs (Kind of hypocritical considering the groom may be fooling around on the bride, no?)
• 6 •
Bridal Chic
Abby rested her forehead on the table and let out a groan. Delila looked up, her green eyes expectant beneath her battered Dave Matthews Band baseball cap. “Come stai, Abigail?” she asked.
“Io, um, stai bad,” Abby said. It was Monday after school and the two friends were sitting outside at Starbucks.
“Okay, your Italian sucks donkey doody,” Delila said.
“D, what am I gonna do?” Abby asked, sitting up. “Can I really let her marry this guy?”
Abby took a sip of the espresso Delila had ordered for her and almost choked. After consuming one quarter of the cup her entire mouth tasted like the drain in the bottom of the catering sink after a wedding.
“P.S., this stuff sucks,” she said.
“You’re gonna have to get used to it if you’re going to Italy,” Delila said. “When in Rome . . .”
“Okay, forget Italy,” Abby said. “What do I do about Tucker?”
Delila leaned back in her chair, squinting toward the sun as if it held the answer.
“You really think he’s cheating on her?” she asked.
“D, you should’ve heard that phone call,” Abby said. She clasped her hands together dramatically. “Melissa . . . please! You can’t do this to me!”
“See, that’s what doesn’t make sense,” Delila said. “I mean, if Tucker’s the one getting married then what is Melissa doing to him? If he’s in a relationship with this girl and he’s leaving her to marry Carol, wouldn’t it be the other way around?”
Abby blinked. This was why she needed Delila around. The girl had a normal thought process instead of the knee-jerk reactions Abby normally relied on.
“I guess . . . ,” she said slowly.
“Look, all I’m saying is give the guy a chance before you condemn him,” Delila said. “From the physical description he sounds totally yum.” She raised her eyebrows and slurped noisily at her coffee, then ran her tongue over her top lip.
“Gag!” Abby said with a laugh. “But I guess you’re right. Actually, Noah said the same thing to me the other day and I practically ripped him to shreds.”
“Poor Noah,” Delila said with a little pout. “Doesn’t he know you need a good twenty-four hours before you can process anything rationally?” Abby sighed and looked out across Main Street as cars whizzed by, headed for baseball practices and Girl Scout meetings. Right about then Carol and Tucker were meeting with the justice of the peace, discussing their wedding ceremony. Abby felt a lump in her throat as she imagined her sister excitedly discussing vows and processionals.
“So, speaking of Noah . . . ,” Delila said. “What was this you mentioned to me today about a possible reciprocation of your lifelong embarrassing crush?”
Abby sighed, wishing she could muster up some of the Noah enthusiasm she’d felt the day before. It was tough to switch gears from her sister’s unfortunate situation to her potentially fortunate one. Abby felt guilty just for thinking about being lucky in love.
“Well, Christopher thinks Noah likes me,” she said.
Delila’s face fell. “Christopher thinks? There’s a reliable source. Why don’t you just call one of those midnight psychic nine hundred numbers?”
“Thanks for the support.”
“Sorry. Hey, you know I think Noah’s an idiot for not noticing your hotness long ago,” Delila said. “If Christopher’s right, I’ll be the first one at the happy couple party.”
“Thanks,” Abby said, looking down.
“Hey? What’s with the face?”
Abby shook her head and attempted to smile. “There’s just so much going on. Between Tucker and all the wedding insanity . . . Did I mention my parents are staging a literal War of the Roses?” Abby said. “I’ve never seen them so riled up about flowers before.”
“Come on. This is Dave and Phoebe we’re talking about,” Delila said with a grin. “They live for this. They must be so stoked now that it’s Carol.”
“I don’t know,” Abby said. “They don’t usually interrupt each other and talk over each other like this. It’s weird. I’m telling you, I don’t even want to go home today.”
“Well, my friend, it sounds like you need a vacation,” she said, slapping her book down on the table. She looked at the cover picture of the Roman ruins as if she’d never seen it before. “I know!” Delila said, her face lighting up. “How about Italy!”
Abby laughed and pulled the book toward her. She scanned the photo of the crumbling Colosseum, the exotic-looking minicars, the European street signs. It was all so different, so exciting, so . . . not here. She hugged the book to herself and smiled.
“Just imagine. One year from now, we might be sipping real espressos at a real café,” Abby said.
“And two hot Italian guys will stroll by and stop— dazzled by our beauty,” Delila put in, sitting forward.
“And they’ll tell us how bella we are and how they want to whisk us away to the Mediterranean Coast. . . .”
“So we’ll hop on the back of their little motorbikes . . .”
“And we’ll speed off,” Abby said, shaking her head back. “And I will be blissfully unaware of the latest trends in wedding gowns. . . .”
“And your guy . . . Sergio . . . a distant cousin of Noah’s who actually notices perfection when he sees it . . . will ask
you if you will agree to never, under any circumstances, marry him.” Delila spread her hands wide in front of her as if painting the tableau before them.
“And then he’ll take me to a professional soccer game,” Abby stated. “Now that is romantic.”
“It’s perfecto!” Delila said. “Too bad Soccerboy’s gonna be there to muck up the works.”
“Delila, this anti-Christopher obsession has got to stop,” Abby said.
“Look, all I’m saying is that with Soccerboy in Italy, Sergio may get the wrong idea.” Delila took a sip of her coffee and looked away.
Abby watched her for a moment, confused, and then sat up straight. “Wait a minute, wait a minute. You don’t think Christopher likes me, do you?”
“Well, you guys are always hanging out together,” Delila said.
“We’re friends! You know we’re just friends,” Abby said with a laugh. “God! Doesn’t anybody think that guys and girls can just be friends anymore?”
Delila pressed her lips together and shook her head. “Nobody has ever thought that guys and girls could just be friends.”
“Well, then we’re the first of our kind,” Abby said. She slumped back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest. “Sheesh. I thought it was the twenty-first century. Besides, Delila, if Christopher liked me do you think he would be telling me he thinks Noah likes me?”
“Who knows why Soccerboy does the things he does?”
“D!”
“Okay, okay,” Delila said, raising her hands. “You don’t like Soccerboy and Soccerboy doesn’t like you. Thank God. By the way, you’ve got a few doves and hearts dangling from your sleeve.”
Abby lifted her arm and, sure enough, there were a dozen pieces of confetti stuck to the pilly weave of her Lockport sweater. How the heck had they gotten there? She groaned as she attempted to brush them off.
“Have I been walking around like that all day? When were you going to tell me?” she said, tossing the confetti at Delila’s face.
“What? I thought it was a new look. Maid of honor chic.”
Abby laughed and rolled her eyes. There was no denying it. This wedding was following her everywhere.
“I have an idea,” Delila said. “I’ve got some Italian language tapes in the car and you don’t want to go home. Want to go to Van Merck and practice?”
“Totally,” Abby said.
“Good. Let’s stop off at your place and get that old portable stereo of yours,” Delila said.
“Okay, but doesn’t that defeat the whole me-not-going-home scenario?”
“Please. We’ll be in, we’ll be out, the Bridezilla will never even know we were there,” Delila said, gathering her things.
“I don’t know,” Abby said as she followed her friend toward the street. “They can smell fear.”
“Let me just run upstairs and get some sunblock,” Abby said. “You know me. It’s never too early in the year to get freckles.”
Abby opened her bedroom door and stopped so fast Delila rammed Abby’s dad’s ancient boom box right into Abby’s back. Abby’s normally messy bed was made and covered with bridal magazines, open and dog-eared with shoes and earrings circled in red and Post-its sticking out from various pages. On her dresser a wheel of fabric swatches was splayed out and three pictures of bridesmaids’ dresses were propped up against the mirror. Her Bend It Like Beckham poster had been partially covered by a corkboard with to-do lists and business cards pinned all over it. Carol and Tucker were sharing Abby’s one desk chair, all cuddled up against each other as Carol clicked the mouse on Abby’s computer.
“Oh . . . my . . . God,” Delila said, hugging the stereo to her chest with both hands. “It looks like a girl’s room.”
Carol and Tucker turned around and smiled. “Hey! Hi Delila! How’ve you been?” Carol asked.
“Fine!” Delila said with forced brightness. “Congrats on the whole wedding thing.”
“Thanks! This is my fiancé, Tucker.” Tucker stood.
“Nice to meet you,” Tucker said, reaching out a hand.
Delila’s eyes widened as she looked up at him. “Whoa,” she said as they shook hands.
“Whoa what?” Tucker smiled.
“Uh . . . strong grip,” Delila said. Then she turned to Abby and mouthed, “He is hot!”
Yeah. Hot and unfaithful, Abby thought.
“So, Abby, I hope you don’t mind,” Carol said, looking around. “If I keep all this stuff in my room I won’t be able to think about anything else. I’m already driving myself crazy.”
“So . . . what? Now I get to be crazy?” Abby dropped her bag in the small area of free space left on her bed. There was a pair of high heels circled on one of the closest pages—pointy-toed Dyeables with skinny little stilettos. “I hope you don’t expect me to wear those,” she said. “I’ll kill myself.” She lifted the photograph close to her face. “And most likely take someone with me.”
“I haven’t decided on anything yet,” Carol said, beaming. “I’m still just getting ideas.”
“Carol, you can’t keep all of this in here.” Abby tossed her sweater in the closet. “Seriously. It’s too much.”
“Come on, Ab. It’s just a few magazines,” Tucker said. “We’ll stack ’em up in the corner and you’ll never notice.”
“A few magazines and my computer, apparently,” Abby said. She leaned in over her desk chair to see what her sister was looking at. There were thumbnails of about a dozen wedding dresses, each with a price and a description—A-line, bateau, ivory, organza, Empire. All words Abby hoped would never invade her personal life.
“You have the cable hookup in here,” Carol said. “It was like torture looking at dresses on the dial-up. It took ten minutes just to download one designer.”
“The injustice,” Delila muttered.
“Oh! You guys can help us decide!” Carol said, standing suddenly and slapping her hands together. “What do you think?”
She picked up a cardboard box from the floor and held it out in front of her. Abby and Delila peeked inside. One half of the box was filled with different silver, gold and chrome bells, each with a ribbon tied at the top. The other half was jammed with little plastic bottles.
“What’s that stuff for?” Delila asked.
“At the end of the ceremony as we walk back down the aisle, I’m either gonna have the guests ring these little bells or”—she opened a little white bottle with two hearts on the top and pulled out a bubble wand—“have everyone blow bubbles!” She demonstrated by showering Abby and Delila with said bubbles.
“I thought rice pelting was traditional,” Delila said.
“So did I,” Tucker said. “Until Carol educated me on the fact that the rice is bad for the birds.”
Tucker and Carol exchanged a sickeningly sweet smile and Delila shot Abby an incredulous and pitying look.
“So, what do you guys think, bells or bubbles?” Carol asked. She held one of the bells up next to her face and tinkled it.
“Why don’t you just do both?” Delila asked.
Carol clucked her tongue. “Delila, this is serious.”
“Right, as opposed to, say, the homeless problem or oppression of women in the Middle East or the perpetual state of war in the Congo,” Abby said.
“Or mad cow disease!” Delila added with satisfaction.
Carol’s face darkened. “Fine. If you guys don’t want to help, I’ll just deal with it myself.”
Carol placed the box on the floor and sat down at the desk again. Abby let out a sigh of relief. She knew Carol was disappointed, but the idea of helping pick out wedding stuff when Abby wasn’t even sure there would be a wedding was just a little too depressing. Besides, it was just bubbles and bells. Carol would get over it.
“Don’t worry, Carol. We’ll figure it out,” Tucker said patiently.
“So . . . Ab? The park?” Delila said.
Abby was about to grab her sunscreen and flee when she saw Carol’s face crumple.
; “Oh! You’re going out?” She put her chin down on the back of the desk chair and looked up at them with her big doe eyes. This did not bode well. “I was hoping you’d come with me. Mom and Becky and I have an appointment at Here Comes the Bride.”
Abby blanched. “Wedding dresses? Already?”
“Well, we are trying to put a wedding together in just a few weeks,” Carol said. “Most people have a year or more. Mom’s going to use all her connections to get me a dress right away, but then there are measurements and fittings. . . . I have to order a gown ASAP.”
“Okay, I get that. I do,” Abby said, backing toward the door as if she were backing away from a rabid animal. “But I have plans. Delila and I were going to go to the park. I mean, if you’d given me some notice . . .”
“Oh! Delila can come, too!” Carol said, grabbing a stack of pictures out of Abby’s printer. She stood up and slung her bag over her shoulder. “I’d love another opinion!”
“I’d go, but Carol wants the dress to be a surprise,” Tucker said, slipping both arms around Carol and kissing her cheek.
Ick. Does he kiss Melissa with that mouth?
“So, Delila?” Carol asked, beaming.
“Uh—that’s okay,” Delila said, shoving the boom box into Abby’s hands. “I just remembered I have to be somewhere that’s—not—here.”
She turned and rushed down the hall.
“D, don’t leave me,” Abby said desperately, following after her.
“Sorry, Ab. But wedding dress shopping? I’d rather eat mud,” Delila whispered, halfway down the stairs already. “Call me tonight. If you survive.”
A minute later Abby heard the door slam and resigned herself to her fate. She was a bridesmaid now. Her life was no longer her own.
“Ready?” Carol asked, wrapping her arm around Abby’s back. “This is gonna be so much fun!”
Abby looked down at the stereo she was hugging and wondered where it had all gone wrong. Coming home seemed to be the problem these days. She should really consider not doing that anymore.
“Sure,” Abby said. She forced a smile so big it actually made her face hurt. “Can’t wait.”
“Oh, Abby! You look just beautiful!” her mother trilled, clasping her hands together.
The Bridesmaid Page 7