I'm turning into a Chia Pet.
With legs.
Little children are starting to toss dandelions when they
see me. The brides of Leverhill, Illinois, have taught the
kiddies well. One little darling wants to grow up and be
just like me — a big flower girl. She nailed it,
especially about the big part, but we're not going there.
Not today, with my formerly fat friend looking like Twiggy-
goes-bridal, while I gasp for breath in a dress fit for a
train wreck. My only consolation is not having to worry
about Tracey aiming a floral missile — known to some as a
bouquet — at me later on.
She wouldn't do me like that, would she? Nah. At least
that's what I tell myself, but then I thought this wedding
wouldn't happen, either. Still, this bride is one of my
closest friends and my roommate for the past three years.
Tracey Cox — well, Tracey Blackman now — has picked enough
baby's breath out of my teeth to know better.
Just in case though, a pint of Chunky Monkey and a
pedicure appointment await me after this reception. Who
knows? Tracey just might snap and throw long. Marriage
does things to people.
One day they're normal and the next they're inviting total
strangers to wear ugly dresses in their weddings, and then
after the ceremony, said brides proceed to cut off all
communication with members of the wedding party except for
goofy Christmas photos of the newlyweds cradling an ugly
dog, signed "from all of us." And don't let them actually
get pregnant. Have you ever seen an entire album of birth
photos? Not cute.
Do I sound bitter?
I'm not. I have friends. And trying to keep up with them,
keep my job and stay right with God occupies most of my
time. Like now. I need to find Rochelle, my other best
friend — yes, I have two — and founder of the Sassy
Sistahood e-mail list. If I don't catch up to her soon,
she might make a fool of herself.
Or me.
Though my girlfriend is a paragon of virtue most days,
weddings turn Rochelle into a gelatinous pool of
desperation. Remember the birth photo album I mentioned?
It's worse. Okay, so nothing's worse than that, but it's
bad. Even the sight of me, tangled in tulips after a
bouquet toss, is easier on the eyes.
Using my emergency X-ray vision, activated by squinting so
hard I almost fused my contacts to my eyeballs, I glimpsed
a pink satin horror similar to my own, but a set of three-
inch shoulder pads blocked my view. Who would wear a power
suit to a wedding — ?
My boss. There she was, looking just as angry as when I'd
left her at work last night. I ducked before she saw me,
recovering from my shock that she'd even shown up. The
bride, who left our office to start her own graphic design
firm six months ago, insisted on inviting Naomi, her
former and my current employer, and Renee, my assistant,
who was probably somewhere taking pictures of me for later
blackmail. She'd be giggling in my ear for the next month.
At least.
My next few weeks of torture aside, I was proud of Naomi
for actually leaving the office — I think she secretly
lives there. For her to show up at her own funeral would
be the height of etiquette. Some people just don't grasp
interaction, you know? And having "interacted" with Naomi
daily for the past six years, I could do without her
today. Besides, I needed to find Sassy Sistah #1 before
she melted down and kissed somebody.
With that thought as fuel, I forced my satin shoes that
were dyed to match the gown — the dye was free, I guess
Tracey couldn't resist — across the sprinkle of autumn
leaves on the ground. Rochelle tiptoed up beside me,
fanning her face, despite the growing chill. Man Mania was
in full swing.
"Did you see Ryan's brother?" she said breathlessly. "From
the looks of things, Tracey should have picked him."
From the reality of things, anyone seemed a better choice.
I mentally squashed the nagging doubt about my friend's
hour-old marriage. Thoughts like that were getting me
nowhere. It was done. God would have to take it from here.
Me worrying myself to an ulcer before I got back to work
on Monday was definitely a waste of resources.
I shook my head at Rochelle and considered reaching out
and shaking hers. This time she was really in the zone. I
spoke right into her ear, hoping it would jar her
brain. "I wasn't really paying attention to the brother of
the groom." Or any other man around here. What would be
the point? The last guy I dated had just married my best
friend.
Rochelle made a clucking sound. "You should have been
paying attention. His brother is fiiine." She rolled her
neck for effect, but didn't quite pull it off. I just
stared. She'd been watching too much UPN again.
"Come on." I tugged at her arm and started back across the
smattering of red-gold leaves, away from Mr. Fiiine. She'd
hate me tomorrow if I didn't. If a man showed up later on
in response to Rochelle's flirting, she would run for her
life while dictating a restraining order into her
recorder.
Usually, her wedding trance would have been long since
broken. But this was Tracey's wedding. And whether
Rochelle and I were willing to admit it or not, we'd both
thought that if anyone got married, it'd be us, not the
cute, fat, geek of the group. Not that Tracey was fat
anymore. Plump-but-cute girl was currently being played by
moi, my midsection pressed against the strangling fabric
of my dress as if in agreement.
Rochelle made a shrill sound, almost like a whistle. The
weary-in-well-doing sigh. Not a good sign. Her pink
leather t-strap shoes, designed by her own hand and much
prettier than my prom knockoffs, peeked from underneath
her Pepto-pink frock, several sizes smaller than my own.
Our skirts skimmed the lawn every few steps. This was
downright antebellum.
Rochelle's words cut through my thoughts. "I can't help
feeling romantic on days like this. Lately, I even wonder
if —"
"If what?" My body stiffened. I'd heard this speech
before. All my die-hard single friends give this little
talk before crossing over into the sea of wanna-be wives.
Tracey's little rant three months ago was still fresh in
my mind. Rochelle? Despite her wedding breakdowns, I never
thought I'd hear it from her. Well, not this soon anyway.
"I'm just talking," she said, moving faster. "It's
nothing, really." More like a big something, but I decided
to leave it. This day had enough mess going without adding
to it. Time for a detour.
"I hope the punch is good."
Rochelle nodded, gathering her skirt to gain a little
speed. Good punch could cover a multitude of sins. Even
Tracey marrying Ryan. Okay, he's not so bad. He's rich,
handsome and loves her to pieces. But there's just
something creepy about the guy. I don't know. Forget I
said anything.
While I pondered the groom's strangeness, Rochelle grabbed
my wrist, digging her natural-length nails into my flesh.
Without looking at her, I knew it was already too late.
And we'd almost made it to punchdom.
Tracey wouldn't, couldn't throw that bouquet at me. But
she did.
A few inches ahead, a group of women floated onto the
green in front of us, forming a frightening pastel cloud.
The bride broke through, holding her weapon of choice —
peach hybrid roses from the Leverhill Botanical Gardens.
"Run!" Rochelle screamed with the concern of a fire
marshal at a brewing blaze.
Obeying her command was my first mistake. The stop-drop-
and-roll technique is always best to achieve my goals:
avoid head trauma, keep the contacts in and keep the dress
covering my backside.
As previously stated, I deviated from this method.
When nothing tagged the back of my head — seriously, they
stopped aiming for my hands two summers ago — I did a dumb
thing and turned around. The bouquet slapped against my
forehead like a Jackie Chan sound effect. I tripped on my
skirt trying to escape — she'd already nailed me, of
course, but it was instinct. My dress ballooned around my
waist like a giant boat made of Bubble Yum.
Then…the pain burned beneath my eye. What was that? I
dropped to one knee, jerking the whole pink mess of me
back into place, while peeking through my fingers.
Something I mis-took for tears trickled into my mouth.
Blood.
I wobbled to my feet. "What in the world?" I'd been hit
with a lot of flowers, a few small shrubs even, but no one
had ever drawn blood. This was past wrong.
Rochelle hovered over me, panting and picking greenery
from between my braids. Satisfied with her job on that,
she peeled back my fingers and surveyed the scratch under
my eye. "The thorns. Tracey forgot to have them removed.
It was the only thing on her list…sorry."
I took my hand off my eye. Rochelle's tone let me know
that she hadn't been in on this but she had been aware of
the possibility. Not for the first time, the Sassy Sistahs
made me mad. Tracey approached slowly, waving like she
always does after doing something crazy. I felt my anger
wash away at the sight of her silly grin. Still, this was
a bit much. "Thorns? You've got to be kidding."
"Wish I was." Rochelle dabbed my face with a napkin from
her clutch. No doubt there was a first-aid kit, needle and
thread, makeup bag and two shades of pantyhose crammed in
that tiny thing. How she'd even managed to hold on to it
while trying to drag me to safety was beyond me, but I'd
long given up on trying to figure out Chelle's superhuman
womanhood. She just has skills like that. I'm lucky to
keep my shoes on. Although I did manage to keep my
contacts in. A new accomplishment.
Just before Tracey reached us, someone from the groom's
family intercepted and wheeled her away. The beginning of
the end. She was no longer my roommate, my best friend.
She was some-one's wife. We walked past Tracey, giving us
the "be right there" signals.
Rochelle smiled.
I sulked. "Knowing Tracey, she probably thought it was
more Christlike to leave the thorns on." Mock disgust
sounded in my voice. I was trying to be mad and couldn't.
"Hush you," Rochelle said, using our code phrase for when
one started in on another of the three. It was the
standard defense, but right now I felt like pushing past
it.
Tracey joined us and slipped an arm around — well, almost
around — my waist. "Got you, didn't I? Sorry about your
eye though."
"You'd better be glad I love y'all," I whispered as people
packed in around us. Pain seared my scalp where Rochelle
had raked a stem through my hair.
"Maybe if you'd helped with the wedding errands, you could
have taken care of those thorns," Rochelle said, reaching
back in her purse for her dabbing cloth.
Ouch. That hurt way more than my eye. The truth always
does. I pushed away Rochelle's hand, preferring to blink
my own way back to health. In a minute, there'd be no skin
left on the right side of my face. That girl was dangerous
with a Kleenex.
Tracey started to say something, but was called away…
again. I took a deep breath, watching her walk to the
punch table with her mother-in-law. Where was the groom?
Why was I the one getting jealous instead of him?
Shouldn't her husband have been the one hunting her down?
Like I said, he's a little weird. This whole deal was. But
there was no use trying to explain that to Rochelle. She
wasn't trying to hear it. So I did what I always do —
tried to explain it anyway. "Look, Rochelle, I already
regret not helping out with the wedding. But I just wasn't
sure about this. When I dated Ryan —"
She tried the neck thing again. With success this
time. "Dated? Is that what you call it? That mess was so
boring he just stopped calling and came back to the
singles group. So he wasn't for you. No reason he can't be
the one for Tracey." In a deft motion, she grabbed a
napkin from the table next to us, wadded it quickly and
removed several layers of my epidermis. "There's just one
last spot…."
She reached out again, but I shook my head, thinking I
should have thrown in some cookies with the Ben and
Jerry's waiting for me at home. The line we'd joined
without meaning to inched toward the punch and some
gruesome-looking cake with what appeared to be bubble gum
toothpaste for filling. I definitely should have helped
with the wedding plans. At least the punch looked good. It
would have to be.
The line crept on. So did the conversation, though I was
reluctant to respond. "Just to be clear. I do not want
Ryan. Never did. I don't want anybody. And I don't
appreciate the insinuation." My lips barely moved as we
spoke through our smiles so no one would hear. Only a
ventriloquist could do better.
Rochelle nodded. "Okay, so that was a bit much."
"Quite a bit. I'm just not feeling Ryan, okay? I know
you've got a chapter and verse for why I shouldn't think
that, but I'm just being real. Tracey is like a piece of
me. How can Ryan be totally wrong for me and totally right
for her? I'm having a hard time understanding that." I
glanced toward the punch bowl at Tracey. She looked happy.
So why did I doubt she'd stay that way? "I'm surprised
Ryan put down his cell phone long enough to get married,
actually."
"Me, too," Rochelle whispered, in a moment of weakness.
"But he married her," she said, regaining strength. "Now
we have to keep them lifted up in prayer." She squeezed my
hand.
I squeezed back, knowing she'd prayed for me just that
quick. She was right. I needed to let this go. "I can't
believe you thought I was jealous though."
I wasn't, was I?