My mom takes a long sip of her water. “Is that your father?”
“Why, yes,” I say, trying to act all cool and casual, which is mighty difficult. Miri jumps up from the table and starts tidying the kitchen.
“Why is he here?” my mom asks, then flattens down her hair. Bet now she wishes she paid more attention to those roots, huh? “Did you girls get into any kind of trouble? Something happen I should know about?”
“No,” Miri and I say simultaneously.
Knock, knock. I leap toward the door. “Hi, Dad!” I sing, and then try not to gasp at the sight of him.
His shirt isn’t tucked in, the few hairs he has left on his head are standing up and pointing in different directions, and he has thick bags under his eyes. “Hi, Rachel. I . . . uh . . . found a book Miri left at the house. I thought she might need it.” He thrusts the book at me. “Can I come in?”
“Sure.” I step aside to let him pass.
My mom, still fidgeting with her hair, joins us in the hallway. “Hi, Daniel. Nice to see you. Everything all right?”
His eyes light up like two headlights when he sees her. “Hi,” he says softly. I don’t believe it. He’s looking at her as if he’s Romeo and she’s Juliet. He’s in love with her again! Hallelujah! Cupid’s arrow has landed!
“Miri forgot a book and I thought she might need it,” he rushes to explain.
“Yes, she did. Look!” I hold up the hardcover like a trophy. It’s my science textbook from last year, but who’s counting? “So, Dad, would you like some tea? Mom was just going to make a pot.”
My mother stares at me as if I’ve lost it. “I was?”
She’d better not blow this. “Why don’t you two sit down and catch up, and I’ll boil the water,” I say. I fill up and plug in our white kettle.
My father accepts the invite and sits down next to Miri at his old chair at the table. My mom has that baffled, I-just-woke-up look on her face, but sits across from him anyway. I wipe off the glob of sloppy joe that’s smeared across the Formica counter and clear the dinner plates.
“Look how helpful they are,” Dad says to Mom. “What’s gotten into them?”
She twirls her hair between her fingers. “Miri has always been helpful, but Rachel is a whole new girl these days. She’s even in great shape. That fashion show is doing wonders for her. She actually took the stairs yesterday without complaining.”
That’s not true. I complained, just not out loud.
My father snorts. “This is the same girl I had to carry on my shoulders in the Diabetes Walkathon?”
They both laugh. Normally, I would get mad at him for bringing it up (I got tired and bored ten minutes into the walk and forced him to carry me the rest of the way), but not this time. The kettle whistles and I place their teas in front of them, saying, “I have a lot of homework to do, so I’ll be in my room if needed.”
“Me too,” Miri adds, and we both burst out of the kitchen, high-fiving all the way to our rooms.
By eleven, I’m in bed, and I can still hear their voices. Hers, girlish and giggling; his, happy and relaxed. Miri opens my door and tiptoes inside. “He’s still here,” she whispers, beaming. The laughter from the kitchen wafts through the walls.
“I know. I just said good-night.” Seeing them together, sitting at the kitchen table like they used to do in the old days, gave me a surge of warm happiness. Like it’s cold outside, but I’m sitting on a cozy couch, wrapped in a woolly blanket, facing a roaring fire.
The next morning, my mom is sipping her coffee, a half smile on her face.
“What time did Dad leave?” Miri asks, chomping her oatmeal as if she’s been fasting for weeks. I pour myself some Cheerios.
“Around one,” she says. “It was nice. And weird. We haven’t talked—you know, talked—in a long time. But I don’t understand what’s going on with him. Has he been fighting with Jennifer?”
Miri and I get very interested in our cereals.
My mom goes back to sipping her coffee.
STB must have freaked if he came home at two in the morning. Maybe he didn’t go home. Maybe the wedding’s already been called off. “What did he say?” I ask. That he’s in love with you? That he has dumped/is about to dump STB and is moving back home?
“We just talked. About you two. About life. And how it . . . creeps up on you.”
Yes! Awesome! Woo-hoo to the power of a billion! Abracadabra fantastica! Welcome back, Dad! And Spring Fling, here I come!
Good things happen in threes.
First, with the help of my new best friend, A2, I’ve managed to reach the Holy Grail of divorced kids and get my parents back together.
Second, Raf has been a sweetheart all day. He dropped by my locker to say hello not once but twice and sat next to me during lunch rehearsal.
“Justin wants to know if we want to split a limo so we can all go to the dance together on Saturday,” he says.
Is showing up to the dance in a chariot with my prince charming okay? Duh, yeah.
Third, after school we picked up our designer outfits. At the Izzy Simpson boutique, I was handed a gorgeous red embroidered silk tea-length dress and adorable wooden three-inch heels with red bows, which I seem to have no problem dancing in. Jewel’s outfit is similar, but her dress is green and flows all the way to the floor. It’s a little long for my taste (I like my calves), but she’s happy.
I’m going to look so glam! I wonder who will bring me flowers. After the closing number, we all stay onstage and the MC (Will Kosravi) calls all our names in alphabetical order, and we walk down the catwalk to accept our bouquets. I’ll have to remind my mom to make sure to buy me one.
The only damper on my great day was Tammy. She fully ignored me. She didn’t acknowledge me when I walked late into class, or even when I passed by her locker.
I tried to apologize. “Tammy,” I said, blocking her in the hallway. “Can we talk?”
“No,” she muttered, and walked away. And the hand gesture she gave me is just too rude to even discuss. Unbelievable. She’d better not be planning on using that fashion show ticket. With attitude like that, she can cough up the ten bucks and sit in the back.
I get home from rehearsal, expecting to hear news of the canceled wedding.
“No news,” Miri says. She’s lying on her bed, legs up, reading.
But Spring Fling is in four days! I plop down beside her. “Maybe I should call him.”
“Don’t, Rachel,” Miri warns, shaking her head. “He’s probably confused right now, but he’ll do the right thing. He won’t marry one woman when he’s in love with another, especially when the object of his affection is the mother of his children. He’ll call us by tomorrow for sure.”
“He’d better. It must take at least a few days to cancel a wedding properly. They have a hundred guests. Someone has to call them and tell them not to come.”
“Maybe she’ll e-mail them. It’ll be the perfect closure for the annoying wedding updates. Or maybe they’ll make the announcement at the wedding rehearsal dinner and then call everyone else.”
Groan. I do not want to trek all the way to Long Island on Thursday for a soon-to-be-defunct-wedding rehearsal. The final fashion show dress practice is after class until six, which means I’ll have to run from school to the train to make it to Long Island by seven thirty.
No. My dad would not do that to us. Tomorrow he’ll call us with the cancelation news. It’s the right thing to do.
By the time I get home at eight at night on Wednesday, I’m soaking wet from rain and extremely nervous.
The entire cast has been outfitted for all our numbers, the dances are perfect, the stage crew has finished the sets, and the limo for Spring Fling has been reserved. The entire kickoff weekend for spring break has been perfectly arranged except for one slight issue: the stupid wedding hasn’t been called off yet.
I ignore Miri’s advice and dial my dad’s number.
STB answers on the first ring, her voice wobbling.
“Hello?”
“Hi, ST—Jennifer, is my dad there?”
“Rachel? No, he isn’t. He went for a walk.”
“In the pouring rain?”
She laughs, but it sounds strained. “He took an umbrella. I don’t know why he went, honestly. He’s been acting strange all week.”
Yes! Strange! An I-have-to-reevaluate-my-life walk! “All righty. I just wanted to say hi.”
“So you’ll be here by seven thirty tomorrow?”
“Yup.”
“And everything’s ready for the show on Friday?”
“Yup.”
“After the show, do you and Miri want to come back here? That way we can get ready for the big day together.”
“Uh, why don’t we wait and see on that one?”
“Whatever you want. I’ll tell your dad to call when he gets back.” She hesitates. “If it’s not too late.”
He calls. But not until twelve thirty. (Must have been a marathon of a walk—yes!) I’m already halfway into Spring Fling dreamworld when I hear the phone ring.
My mom picks up. “Daniel, hi,” I hear her say. “Are you okay? You don’t sound okay. Are you on your cell?” Her voice drops to an infuriatingly low pitch, so I’m forced to climb out of bed, sneak into the hallway, and shove my ear against her door.
“I can’t help make that decision for you. . . . You made your bed and now you have to lie in it. . . . It’s been so long. . . . My feelings have changed. . . .”
Oh no oh no oh no!
And then: “Of course I still care about you. . . .”
Oh yes oh yes oh yes!
I fall asleep, with the door as my pillow, a satisfied smile on my face.
I can’t believe I still have to go to the sham of a rehearsal dinner. Between the fashion show and the wedding, I’m all rehearsed out.
The fashion show dress rehearsal goes perfectly. The sets are gorgeous. The designers managed to put the Eiffel Tower back together for the formal, they’ve imported real sand for the all-girls “Miami” number, and they’ve painted massive slot machines for the Vegas freshman dance. Their most impressive accomplishment is their virtual Manhattan skyline for the closing, which features a mini Empire State Building that changes color every thirty seconds. The auditorium is lined with rows and rows of chairs, and the twenty-foot-long catwalk has been resurrected from storage.
The rehearsal begins with us, the five freshman girls, onstage. We run straight through the ten numbers, right to the final bows. I’m pretending to receive my flowers when London Zeal’s name is called. After she does her fake wave to the audience, the entire cast cheers and applauds. Clad all in black (okay, I’ll be fair here: we’re all in black for the New York number), she’s smiling from ear to ear. “In my four years of being in JFK fashion shows,” she says, “this one is by far the best show. Ever.”
We cheer even louder. I have to admit, despite all the hard work, this was definitely an amazing experience. I’d probably be enjoying the payoff more thoroughly if the whole wedding fiasco hadn’t turned me into a wreck.
“Now get some beauty sleep,” she concludes, “and I’ll see the girls at one tomorrow at Bella Salon!”
We head to the gym locker rooms, which are squashed between the auditorium and the cafeteria, and are where we’ll be changing our outfits between numbers tomorrow. I’m about to dash to the train when Raf waves me over. “Hi,” I say, too nervous to look him in the eye.
“Where are you off to?” he asks, buttoning up his jacket.
“Oh, um . . . I have to talk to my dad about something.”
“Cool. See you tomorrow. It’ll be chaos, so if we don’t have a chance to talk, I’ll pick you up at eight thirty on Saturday.”
I feel queasy. What am I going to do if my dad’s a big wuss and doesn’t call off the wedding? It’s in two days! What am I going to tell Raf? Oh, sorry, my dad’s getting married tonight, did I forget to mention it? Can the limo make a pit stop in Port Washington so I can run down the aisle and then jump back into the car?
What to do, what to do, what to do? Skip my dad’s wedding and be grounded for the rest of my life? Can a parent who’s not living with you do that? Tell Raf I’m sick and I’m stuck in bed and miss the best night of my life?
“We’re going to party on that dance floor,” he says, then salutes me as he strolls off.
Is that all I am to him? A dancing partner? Or will he finally kiss me? How will I ever graduate from quasi girlfriend to girlfriend if I have to be on Long Island?
Here I am. At the private room at Al Dente. I’m having the same Caesar salad I almost vomited when STB and my dad first announced they were getting married, and I’m about to puke again. This time I should have asked them to hold the anchovies.
And this isn’t even the end of it. After we all finish stuffing our faces, we have to head to the hotel banquet hall, The Garden, and practice walking down the aisle. Come on. Don’t they think we can figure it out? We all know how to walk.
Miri has gnawed away most of the skin on her fingers and is trailing blood on the white tablecloth. Ew. If I weren’t so nervous myself, I would let her know how vile she’s being.
It’s over. No, not the wedding. My life.
There are twenty people here, including my father’s law partners; my uncle Tommy and his second wife, Rebecca; my cousins; Jennifer’s sister and brother and their spouses and kids (thankfully Prissy is off chatting gibberish with them); Jennifer’s parents; and my bubbe.
She’s the only person who seems even more pissed off than me and Miri about being here. She’s sitting in the corner, scowling, constantly asking the maitre d’ if the heat is still on. She’s not the best-tempered of women.
Except for my grandmother, everyone of age is highly tipsy. Especially my father. Everyone else has been polishing off bottles of chardonnay, but my dad has opted for vodka on the rocks. Many, many of them. This is the first time I’ve ever seen him drink anything besides wine with dinner.
“I guess we lost,” Miri whispers. “He’s not going to break it off. Maybe he doesn’t want to hurt her feelings. Maybe he’ll turn himself into an alcoholic for the next month, trying to drown his pain, and then the spell will wear off and he’ll love STB again and that’ll be that. She’s horrible and now she’ll be related to us and we’ll have to get used to it.”
I sigh and take another bite of my salad. I can’t believe it. What’s the point in having a sister who’s a witch if you can’t even get rid of one lousy step-monster? “Maybe we should put a spell on Mom and have her interrupt the wedding. You know, when they ask if anyone cares to object, she’ll jump up.”
Miri snorts. “Why don’t I cast spells on everyone at the wedding? Have all the guests simultaneously object for various reasons.”
I giggle. “Now that’s funny.”
“So that’s it? We give up?” she asks.
My heart sinks like the Titanic. It’s over? My potential happiness was so close, and now it’s swamped at the bottom of the sea. Is there no way to hoist it back to the surface? There has to be a rock left unturned . . . something I haven’t thought of. . . .
Nothing. I’ve got nada. Do you know what two positives multiplied by zero is?
[Brilliant plan + brilliant plan] X zilch = a big, fat zero.
“I give up. I’ll have to tell Raf I’m sick.” I practice coughing. Maybe I’ll tell him that I have meningitis. Or that I’m dying of a broken heart. That one certainly feels true. Or maybe I’ll tell him I caught whatever he was sick with last week so he feels guilty, too guilty to ask Melissa to replace me in the limo—or in his arms. Sigh.
STB taps her glass to get everyone’s attention.
“Thank you all for coming,” she says, standing up. “I want to take this opportunity to say how much I love you all. How blessed I am to have met Daniel and to have fallen in love with him. He’s kind and generous and loving and sweet and brilliant, and I’m honored that he has chosen me to be his wife.”
/> The guests politely applaud. My father rises. “I love you too, Carol.”
Everyone freezes.
Carol?
Did he just say Carol? Not Jennifer, but Carol?
Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes to the power of a trillion!
STB’s face drains of color. Like an orange shirt washed in the laundry with bleach.
The awareness of what he has just said pops into my dad’s eyes. “I mean . . . I meant . . . I think . . .” He sits down. Omigod. Are those tears in his eyes? “I’m sorry, Jen,” he whimpers. “I’m still in love with Carol. I can’t marry you.”
Total chaos ensues. My dad is crying, Prissy is crying, Mrs. Abramson is crying, and even my grandmother is crying (which is strange, considering she never liked STB either). And STB looks as if she just swallowed a lobster—whole. Mr. Abramson jumps up and tries to punch my father in the nose, but hits a waiter instead when my dad ducks. A plate of someone’s penne arrabbiata splatters onto Mrs. Abramson’s yellow suit.
Miri and I stay perfectly still, squeezing each other’s hands under the table. The wedding is off. I should be screaming for joy, but I’m too afraid to move.
And I can’t help watching as a fat tear spills from STB’s eye and splashes onto the tablecloth.
If this is what I want, why do I feel so nauseous? I push away my plate.
Must be those anchovies.
20
THIS IS NO APRIL FOOLS JOKE
It’s baaaaaack!
It’s only six thirty in the morning, but I’m wide-awake, rehashing the disaster of last night. The silent train ride home with Miri. The queasiness in my stomach. My mother asking us how the dinner went, our evasive shrugs indicating that it went well. (Yeah, right.)
“No more spells,” Miri said before we disappeared into our separate rooms.
I tossed and turned all night, wondering why my dad hadn’t come straight over, if he had called his guests to tell them the wedding was off, if STB had blown a cork—while worrying that all this wondering would make my eyes puffy from lack of sleep.
Bras & Broomsticks Page 20