by Sarah Dessen
She was still smiling at me in the mirror. Sometimes I thought if she could read my mind it would kill her. Or both of us.
“Different,” she said, convincing herself. “It’s different this time.”
“Sure, Mom,” I said, putting my hands on her shoulders. They felt small to me, somehow, from where I stood. “Sure it is.”
On my way down to my room, Chris jumped out at me.
“Remy! You’ve got to see this.”
I glanced at my watch—five-thirty—and then followed him into the lizard room. It was cramped, and he had to keep it hot all the time, which made being in there feel like a really long elevator ride to nowhere.
“Look,” he said, grabbing my hand and yanking me down beside him, next to the incubator. The top was off and inside there was a small Tupperware container, filled with what looked like moss. On top of it were three little eggs. One was broken open, one kind of mushed, and the other had a little hole in the top.
“Check it out,” Chris whispered, and pointed at the one with the hole.
“Chris,” I said, looking at my watch again. “I haven’t even taken a shower yet.”
“Just wait,” he told me, poking at the egg again. “This is worth it.”
We crouched there, together. My head was starting to hurt from the heat. And then, just as I was about to get up, the egg stirred. It wobbled a bit, and then something poked out of the hole. A tiny little head, and as the egg tore, it was followed by a body. It was slippery and slimy and so small it could have fit on the tip of my finger.
“Varanus tristis orientalis,” Chris said, as if he was casting a spell. “Freckled monitor. He’s the only one that survived.”
The little lizard still seemed a bit dazed, blinking its eyes and moving in a stuttered kind of way, jerkily. Chris was beaming, as if he’d just single-handedly created the universe.
“Pretty cool, huh?” he said as the lizard moved again on his tiny webbed feet. “We’re the first thing he’s ever seen.”
The lizard stared up at us, and we stared back, taking each other in. He was little and defenseless, I felt sorry for him already. This was a screwed-up place he’d just come into. But he didn’t have to know that. Not yet, anyway. There in that room, where it was hot and cramped, the world probably still seemed small enough to manage.
Chapter Four
“And finally, please lift your glasses and toast Barbara’s daughter, Remy, who planned and organized this entire event. We couldn’t have done it without her. To Remy!”
“To Remy!” everyone echoed, glancing at me before sucking down more champagne.“And now,” my mother said, smiling at Don, who hadn’t stopped grinning since the organist had started the “Prelude” for the ceremony two hours earlier, “please, enjoy yourselves!”
The string quartet began playing, my mother and Don kissed, and finally I let out a breath. The salads had been served, everyone seated. Cake: check. Table centerpieces: check. Bartender and liquor: check. This and a million other details completed meant that now, after six months, two days, and approximately four hours, I could relax. At least for a few minutes.
“Okay,” I said to Chloe, “now I will have some champagne.”
“Finally!” she said, pushing a glass at me. She and Lissa were past tipsy, red faced and giggly enough to have attracted attention to our table more than once already. Jennifer Anne, who was sitting on my left with Chris, was drinking seltzer water and watching us, a pinched look on her face.
“Great job, Remy,” Chris said, spearing a tomato from his salad and stuffing it in his mouth. “You really made this a good day for Mom.”
“After this,” I told him, “she’s on her own. Next time, she can go to Vegas and get married by an Elvis impersonator. I’m out.”
Jennifer Anne let her mouth drop open. “Next time?” she said, shocked. Then she looked over at my mother and Don, who were now at the head table, managing to eat and hold hands concurrently. “Remy, this is marriage. In front of God. It’s forever.”
Chris and I just looked at her. Across the table, Lissa burped.
“Oh my God,” she said as Chloe began snorting with laughter. “Excuse me.”
Jennifer Anne rolled her eyes, clearly offended at sharing a table with a bunch of peons and cynics. “Christopher,” she said, and she was the only one who ever called him that, “let’s get some air.”
“But I’m eating my salad,” Chris said. He had dressing on his chin.
Jennifer Anne just picked up her napkin, folding it delicately. She’d finished her salad already and left her utensils in that neat cross in the middle, signaling to the server that she was done.
“Sure,” Chris said, standing up. “Air. Let’s go.”
Once they were gone, Chloe hopped over two seats, with Lissa following along behind her clumsily. Jess was missing, having had to stay home with her little brother when he came down with a sudden case of strep throat. Quiet as she was, I always felt things were out of balance when she wasn’t around, as if Lissa and Chloe were too much for me to handle alone.
“Man,” Lissa said as Jennifer Anne led Chris out into the lobby, talking the whole way, “she hates us.”
“No,” I said, taking another gulp of my champagne, “she just hates me.”
“Oh, stop,” Chloe said, picking through her salad.
“Why would she hate you?” Lissa asked as she tipped up her glass again. Her lipstick was smudged, but in a cute way.
“Because she thinks I’m a bad person,” I told her. “I go against everything she believes in.”
“But that’s not true!” she said, offended. “You’re a wonderful person, Remy.”
Chloe snorted. “Now, let’s not get crazy.”
“She is!” Lissa said, loud enough so that a couple of people at the next table—Don’s dealership coworkers—glanced over at us.
“I’m not wonderful,” I said, squeezing Lissa’s arm. “But I am a bit better than I used to be.”
“That,” Chloe said, tossing her napkin down on her plate, “I can agree with. I mean, you don’t smoke anymore.”
“Right,” I agreed. “And I hardly get falling down drunk at all.”
Lissa nodded. “That’s true too.”
“And finally,” I said, finishing my drink, “I don’t sleep around nearly as much as I used to.”
“Here, here,” Chloe said, lifting up her glass so I could tap mine against it. “Watch out Stanford,” she said, smiling at me. “Remy’s practically a saint now.”
“St. Remy,” I said, trying it out. “I think I like that.”
The dinner was good. No one else seemed to think the chicken was a little rubbery besides me, but then I’d lobbied hard for the beef and lost, so I might have just been sore. Jennifer Anne and Chris never returned to our table; later, on my way to the rest room, I saw they’d defected to one where I’d put several of the local bigwigs Don was friendly with from the chamber of commerce. Jennifer Anne was talking away to the town manager, waving her fork as she made a point, while Chris sat beside her, a stain now on his tie, shoveling food in his mouth. When he saw me he smiled, apologetically, and just shrugged, as if this, like so many other things, was completely out of his hands.
Meanwhile, at our table, the champagne was flowing. One of Don’s nephews, who went to Princeton, was busy hitting on Chloe, while Lissa, in the ten minutes I’d been gone, had crossed over from happily buzzing to completely maudlin, and was now well on her way to flat-out weepy drunk.
“The thing is,” she said, leaning into me, “I really thought that Adam and I would get married. I mean, I did.”
“I know,” I said, feeling relieved as I saw Jess, in one of her few dresses, heading toward us. She looked uncomfortable, as she always did in anything but jeans, and as she sat down she made a face.
“Pantyhose,” she grumbled. “Stupid things cost me four bucks and feel like freaking sandpaper.”
“Well, if it isn’t Jessica,” Chloe said,
her voice high and giggly. “Don’t you own any dresses from this decade?”
“Bite me,” Jess told her, and Don’s nephew raised his eyebrows. Chloe, hardly bothered, went back to her champagne and some long story she’d been telling about herself.
“Jess,” Lissa whispered, falling off my shoulder and onto hers, her head nudging Jess’s ear, “I’m drunk.”
“I see that,” Jess said flatly, pushing her back to me. “Gosh,” she said brightly, “I’m so glad I came!”
“Don’t be like that,” I told her. “Are you hungry?”
“I had some tuna fish at home,” she said, squinting at the cen terpiece.
“Stay here.” I stood up, easing Lissa back against her own chair. “I’ll be right back.”
I was just on my way back to the table, plate of chicken and asparagus and pilaf in hand, when I heard the microphone up front crackle, a few guitar chords jangling behind it.
“Hi everyone,” a voice said as I ducked between two tables, sidestepping a server clearing plates, “we’re the G Flats, and we’d like to wish Don and Barbara the best of happiness together!”
As everyone applauded this, I stopped where I was standing, then turned my head. Don had insisted on handling the band, claiming he knew someone who owed him a favor. But now, I wished more than anything that I’d just hired the local Motown group, even if they had played two of my mother’s previous receptions.
Because of course it was Dexter, the musician boy, standing in front of the microphone in a black suit that looked a size too big. He said, “What do you say, folks? Let’s get this party going!”
“Oh, my God,” I said, as the band—a guitar player, someone on keyboards, and in the back, the red-haired Ringo I’d met the day before—burst into a rousing rendition of “Get Ready.” They were all wearing thrift shop suits, Ringo in the same clip-on tie. But already people were crowding onto the dance floor, shuffling and shimmying, my mother and Don in the middle of it all, whooping it up.
I went back to the table and gave Jess her plate, then flopped down into my seat. Lissa, as I’d expected, was now teary-eyed, dabbing at her face with a napkin while Jess patted her leg, mechanically. Chloe and the nephew were gone.
“I don’t believe this,” I said.
“Believe what?” Jess asked, picking up her fork. “Man, this smells great.”
“The band—” I began, but that was as far as I got before Jennifer Anne appeared beside me, Chris in tow.
“Mom’s asking for you,” Chris said.
“What?”
“You’re supposed to be dancing,” Jennifer Anne, queen of etiquette, informed me, gently nudging me out of my seat. “The rest of the wedding party is already up there.”
“Oh, come on,” I said, looking at the dance floor, where of course my mother was now staring right at me, smiling beatifi cally and waggling her fingers in that come-here-now kind of way. So I grabbed Lissa up with one arm—damned if I was going out there alone—and dragged her with me, through the maze of tables, and into the crowd.
“I don’t feel like dancing,” she sniffled.
“Neither do I,” I snapped.
“Oh, Remy, Lissa!” my mother shrieked as we came closer, reaching out her arms to pull us both in close. Her skin was warm, the fabric of her dress slippery and smooth as she brushed against me. “Isn’t this just so fun?”
We were right in the middle of the crowd, people dancing all around us. The band segued cleanly into “Shout,” accompanied by a whoop from someone behind me. Don, who had been dipping my mother wildly, now grabbed my arm and spun me out, hurling me into a couple doing the bump. I almost felt my arm disconnect from my body before he yanked me back, gyrating his pelvis wildly.
“Oh, Lord,” Lissa said from behind me, having seen this. But then I was flying out again, this time in the opposite direction. Don danced with such vigor I feared for the rest of us. I kept trying to send him back to my mother, but she was distracted dancing with one of Don’s little nephews.
“Help me,” I hissed at Lissa as I whizzed past her, Don’s hand still clamping my wrist. Then he pulled me close for a weird, jitterbug kind of hopping that made my teeth knock together, but not enough to distract me from seeing Chloe, who was standing off to the side of the dance floor, laughing hysterically.
“You’re a great dancer!” Don said, pulling me in close and dipping me wildly. I was sure my cleavage would bust out of my dress—the fittings, while many, had not quite done the trick—but then he pulled me back up, lickety-split, and I got a mean head rush. “I love to dance,” Don yelled at me, throwing me out into another spin. “I don’t get to do it enough!”
“I think you do,” I grumbled, as the song finally began to wind down.
“What’s that?” he said, cupping his hand over his ear.
“I said,” I told him, “that you really can move.”
He laughed, wiping his face. “You too,” he said, as the band finished up with a crashing of cymbals. “You too.”
I escaped as everyone was applauding, pushing my way to the bar, where my brother was standing nibbling on a piece of bread, alone for once.
“What was that?” he said, laughing. “God, it looked like some wild tribal ritual.”
“Shut up,” I said.
“And now, folks,” I heard Dexter say from the stage as the lights dimmed a bit, “for your listening pleasure . . . a little slow song.”
The opening strains of “Our Love Is Here to Stay” began, a bit clumsily, and people who’d been avoiding the dance floor during the faster numbers started getting up from their chairs and pairing off. Jennifer Anne appeared next to me, smelling of hand soap, and slid her fingers over Chris’s, dislodging the bread he was holding.
“Come on,” she murmured, tactfully dropping the bread onto a nearby table. Whatever I felt for her personally, I had to admire her technique. Nothing stopped this girl. “Let’s dance.”
“Absolutely,” Chris agreed, and wiped his mouth as he followed her, glancing back at me as they reached the floor. “You okay?”
I nodded. “Fine,” I said. The room had grown quieter as the music did, people’s voices more hushed as they moved together, cheek to cheek. Onstage, Dexter sang on while the keyboardist looked bored, glancing at his watch. I could relate.
What was it about slow dancing, anyway? Even in junior high I’d hated the moment the music stalled, screeching to a halt so that someone could press their sweaty body to yours. At least with real dancing you weren’t trapped, forced to rock back and forth with a total stranger who now, simply because of proximity, felt it was perfectly all right to grab your ass and anything else within reach. What a bunch of crap.
And it was crap. Totally. Because all slow dancing was really only about getting close to someone you wanted close or being forced to be close to someone you wished was far, far away. Okay, so my brother and Jennifer Anne looked totally smitten, and yeah, okay, the words to the song were nice and romantic. I mean, it wasn’t a bad song or anything. It just wasn’t my thing.
I grabbed a glass of champagne off a passing tray, taking a sip and wincing as the bubbles worked their way up my nose. I was fighting off a coughing fit when I felt someone come up beside me. I glanced over to see a girl who worked with Don—her name was Marty, or Patty, something with a middle t. She had long, permed hair, big bangs, and was wearing too much perfume. She smiled at me.
“I love this song,” she said, taking a sip of her drink and sighing. “Don’t you?”
I shrugged. “I guess,” I said as Dexter leaned into the microphone, closing his eyes.
“They look so happy,” she went on, and I followed her gaze to my mother and Don, who were laughing and doing dips as the song wound down. She sniffled, and I realized she was near tears. How weird that weddings do that to some people. “He’s really happy, isn’t he?”
“Yeah,” I said, “he is.”
She wiped her eyes, then waved her hand at me apologeticall
y, shaking her head. “Oh, dear,” she said. “forgive me. I just—”
“I know,” I said, if only to save her from whatever she was about to say. I’d had all the sentimental stuff I could handle for one day.
Finally the last verse came to an end. Marty/Patty took a deep breath, blinking as the lights came up again. Under closer scrutiny I could see she was actually crying: red eyes, face red, the whole deal. Her mascara, which I could not help but notice was applied a bit too plentifully, was beginning to streak.
“I should . . .” she said shakily, touching her face. “I need to freshen up.”
“Good to see you,” I told her, the same way I’d told everyone who I was forced to talk to all night long, in the same cheery hey wedding-ho! voice.
“You, too,” she said, with less enthusiasm, and then she was gone, bumping against a chair on her way out.
Enough, I thought. I need a break.
I walked past the cake table and out a side door to the parking lot, where a couple of guys in waiter’s jackets were smoking cigarettes and picking at some leftover cheese puffs.
“Hey,” I said to them, “can I bum one?”
“Sure.” The taller guy, whose hair was kind of model-poofy, shook a cigarette out of his pack, handing it to me. He pulled out a lighter and held it for me as I leaned into it, taking a few puffs. He lowered his voice and said, “What’s your name?”
“Chloe,” I said, pulling back from him. “Thanks.” I eased away around the corner, even as he was calling after me, finding a spot by the Dumpsters on the wall. I kicked off my shoes, then looked down at the cigarette in my hand. I’d done so well: eighteen days. It didn’t even taste that good, really. Just a weak crutch on a bad night. So I tossed it down, watching it smolder, and leaned back on my palms, stretching out my back.
Inside, the band stopped playing, to scattered applause. Then the canned hotel music came on, and a few seconds later a door farther down the wall banged open and out came the G Flats, their voices loud.