Borrow-A-Bridesmaid (13 page)

Fourteen

B
londPrincess742 drives a spotless silver BMW with a personalized license plate that reads SMILYFC. She makes her way toward the DSW, a bounce in her step and a pair of oversize gem-studded sunglasses perched on the bridge of her nose.

I switch off Wulfie's engine and pat the dashboard. “Please hang in there,” I say soothingly. “After this next gig, I'll fix you, I promise.”

I sit in the car for a minute longer, watching BlondPrincess742 scan the parking lot, an expectant smile on her face. I can already tell I'm not sufficiently caffeinated for this. But if I sit in the car any longer without AC, I'm going to suffocate.

She spots me as soon as I close the car door and meets me in the middle of the parking lot, clacking across the cement in strappy pink sandals. “Piper?” she asks, already grinning. We agreed over e-mail that I'd wear a pink T-shirt so she could recognize me. I chose a Cheer Bear shirt from Goodwill. The irony! Right now, cheer feels as far away as Pluto in my emotional solar system. I'm hungover. My face hurts.

I extend my hand, but she throws her arms around my neck.

“I'm Stacey! It's so great to meet you!” As she pulls away, she clasps her hands together and beams at me. She's a perky, petite number with a heart-shaped face, glossed lips, and huge eyes. She looks like an anime character come to life.

Standing together, I imagine the two of us look like a before and after makeover sequence. But I return her smile, the wattage of mine much dimmer.

“You have no idea how much this means,” she says as we walk in step toward the store. “The thought of doing this whole thing without a sister—well. Do you have a sister?”

The first thought that pops into my head is the American Girl doll I pretended was my sister for a whole year. Much to the chagrin of my parents, I insisted on having her sit at the dinner table while I mashed peas against her vinyl lips. My parents had to pull two extra chairs up to the table: one for my doll and one for my imaginary friend Phyllis. Phyllis was magical and could do cartwheels up the steps. Also, every time she did a cartwheel, a vegetable somewhere on the planet died.

“I'm an only child,” I say.

“Me, too! So there's a part in the ceremony especially for the bride's sister, and I need someone there with me. Oh! There's another part that's especially for an unmarried friend of the bride. I was hoping you could handle that, too.”

Great—the token unmarried friend. Glad to oblige.

We walk inside, rows and rows of shoes expanding before us, and I wonder why Stacey doesn't have another girlfriend who could fill in. She's the kind of picture-perfect type who, in high school and college, at least, must have been part of some girl flock or other.

“So I need gold shoes to wear with the sari,” she's saying. We start walking down the first row of heels while she fills me in on her fiancé, Raj, and the Indian wedding ceremony. Her other college girlfriends (aha! I knew she had a gaggle of them stashed somewhere) are coming in from out of town to be in the Christian wedding. But Raj's family insisted on having the Hindu ceremony a week before the Christian one, and none of Stacey's friends could take enough time off work to be in both. I'll be posing as a sorority sister, Kappa Kappa Delta.

“I have work friends,” Stacey explains, “but I don't really feel close enough to ask them to be in my Hindu wedding. Then I have my church friends, but when I mentioned the Hindu wedding, they were kind of reserved about it. I mean, they're totally supportive of me and Raj, but they didn't seem too keen on the idea of being in the Hindu ceremony. When I saw your ad, something clicked.” She loops her arm through mine. “This is perfect. I mean, you're a pro! How many weddings have you been in, anyway?”

I make a mental note to thank Lin for making my ad sound so professional. I'm not sure if Stacey would have gone for the late-night haiku I originally composed. Lin had stood over me, shaking his head and editing my ad as he peered, proctor-like, over the top of his glasses.

I smile, trying to look like a pro. Not like someone who is unemployed, desperate, and eighty-five dollars and seventeen cents away from bankruptcy.
Don't mention that you've never done a Hindu ceremony.
“Oh, you know,” I say, going on a whim that she's the kind of person who'll read whatever she wants into ambiguity.

“See, you're like, a wedding guru! You're perfect.” She hugs my arm closer to hers before veering sharply toward a pair of white sandals studded with bling. “Speaking of perfect—squee!”

After an hour, she's settled on gold flats, so she can easily slip out of them when she goes into the
mandap
wedding tent. We've also found a pair of white fluffy slippers that have “Bride” spelled across them in sequins. Lord, she is girly. But I have to admit I like her. She's like one of those popular girls you wish you could hate but secretly hope to be invited to sit with her lunch table.

Walking between aisles of handbags, she slips her arm through mine and tells me how she met Raj at a party, how they struggled in the early days of their relationship. “You grow up being told that love is love, that it crosses all boundaries, that you can choose who you love. But what I realized was, underneath all that, my parents wanted me to marry someone like—well, like them.”

For the first time this afternoon, the SMILYFC vibe fades. She stops in front of a display stand, picking up a beaded clutch and absently opening and shutting it.

“So where do things stand now?” I ask her.

“I guess I don't know.” She opens the clutch again, gazing into its blue silk interior. “Certain family members still don't love the idea. I mean, heck, even me, I always thought I'd marry a Christian guy. Things don't always turn out like you think. Anyway, my mom especially, let's just say she's . . . not keen on the idea.” She presses her lips together. “At one point she said she wouldn't come to a ‘heathen' wedding.” I raise my eyebrows, and Stacey nods vigorously, looking like she might cry. “Yeah. I know. She skipped the engagement ceremony, even though Raj's parents came all the way from India.”

“Well, she'll come around eventually, won't she?”

“I don't know.” She loops her arm through mine again and presses it against her body. “One night I laid it all out for her. I told her that nothing was going to change my mind—or my heart—about Raj.”

I try to imagine standing up to my own mom, who would probably say something similar if I were having a Hindu wedding. “Don't they pray to an elephant?” she'd drawl, scrunching up her face and twisting her lips to the side. I picture an older, grayer version of Stacey making the same face.

“Anyway,” Stacey continues, “it made her stop criticizing me, at least openly. I guess she saw she wasn't going to talk me out of marrying him. But I doubt she'll come to the Hindu wedding. Maybe not even the Christian one.” Her lip quivers.

“Oh, Stacey.” This time I'm squeezing her arm against mine. And before I realize it, Writer Piper is making notes for the article: “I never imagined that weddings would be as much about division as about union. For some families, announcing a wedding is like rolling an apple of discord in with you at dinner.”

“What can I do? I can only pray she'll come around. And I do—every day.” She wipes her eyes. “Okay, back to handbags. I need something sizable for the honeymoon.”

Between leopard prints and polka dots, she fills me in on Hindu wedding rituals, even though she can't seem to remember the name of anything. “I'll give you a study guide,” she says, laughing. “Once I get more of the details from the priest and his wife. And my wedding planner, Deb, will be there to help. You'll love Deb. She's British and totally adorable!”

As we walk back into the sunlight, she turns to me, blond curls bobbing. “This was a blast!” She puts a hand on my arm. “I know you're going to be a perfect Hindu bridesmaid.”

I grin. Despite all her full-volume cuteness, Stacey has won me over. But when I drive outside the radius of her brightness, I feel edgy. I'm going to earn a few hundred from the Hindu wedding, but it's not enough to make next month's rent without another source of income—not to mention I'm having visions of knocking over the Hindu priest's sacred fire. Stacey's was the only legit response I received to my ad this time. And some of the responses made me wonder if I'd ever post on Craigslist again. Case in point: The man who sent a picture of himself dressed in a banana suit, explaining that he was naked underneath. Would I like to pick a fruit suit and meet up with him at the market?

I put on my right turn signal, noticing that Wulfie's usual grumbling noise has acquired a death rattle. I say a silent prayer as I pull onto the Beltway, wondering if, like Stacey, I should afix a small Ganesha figurine to my dashboard. (“Look at his lil' trunk! He's totally cute!”)

The noise increases as I accelerate to merge, and I grasp the steering wheel tighter, as if I can will the car to make it back to Fairfax. As I approach the next Beltway exit, I make a quick decision to abandon the four-lane highway as the death rattle grows louder and Wulfie stutters violently, trying to buck me out of my seat. I make it through a green light on Route 7 and set my sights on a gas station about a quarter mile down the road.

But Wulfie's not having it. He's been ignored, he's been worked to the bone, and he's not going to take it anymore. The power underneath me gives way. The accelerator stops responding to the ardent requests of my foot. A Hummer behind me blasts the horn as I drift ten miles per hour under the speed limit. There's nowhere to go: The left lane is blocked with construction cones, and there's an unforgiving curb on the right in lieu of a shoulder. I continue drifting, praying I'll have enough momentum to make it to the gas station.

After a few seconds and more horn blares from the Hummer, it's clear I'm not going to make the gas station. The next pull-off is a large strip mall to my right. I think I can make it if I don't get smushed.

When I glance in the rearview, the Hummer's grille is right on Wulfie's bumper, and I catch a quick flash of the driver's downturned mouth, which is most certainly shouting obscenities. I'm shaking head to toe from the abject intimidation. I raise my hands in a gesture that is supposed to convey that I no longer have control over my vehicle. That the Road Warrior has stopped fighting. The driver responds with a one-fingered gesture of his own.

I make it to the shopping center and roll to a stop, my car diagonal across two parking spaces in the far corner of the lot. The Hummer continues blaring as he blows past. The window is rolled down to expose the gesture, in case I missed it the first time. What I didn't catch the first time is that it's a female driver, a whip of blond hair blowing through the open window. The back window rolls down as well, and several blond spawn echo the mother's gesture.

As if on cue, a rumble of thunder shakes Wulfie, the sky opens up, and it begins to pour.

Fifteen

W
ulfie is dead.

No lights on the dashboard. No response to my key turning in the ignition. Nada.

I put up the tarp and wait a few minutes, praying fervently to several different gods, kissing the dashboard and flattering Wulfie, and try again. Still nothing. Raindrops explode against the windshield. The storm is so violent, I can hardly see a foot in front of me. Only the red brake lights on Route 7 and the nearby neon lights from the strip mall are visible.

After calling a tow company, I wait for the rain to let up enough to dash into a Starbucks. I dry myself off in the bathroom and order a black coffee with a gift card from Lin.

Curled up in a comfy chair in the corner and watching the rain, I wonder how I'm going to pay for this latest repair, however much it might be. I pull my phone back out and text Alex.
Think I'm ready to take you up on that job offer.

I hit “send,” but before I snap the phone closed, it begins to ring. The name on the display almost makes me drop my coffee.

Charlie Bell.

A little elfin urge plays at the control panel in the back of my mind, flipping various switches, reattaching wires, lighting up the subpanel of memory. The message delivered to my conscious mind by the brain elf is: Answer it.

Still sore from the emotional crash landing following Charlie's departure, I consider the brain elf's imperative. I banished Charlie to some cramped office in the back hallway of my memories, but as much as I've been distracted by Kalil and new bride clients, Charlie's presence there is persistent. He's vivid, the gold-flecked eyes radiant among the grayscale memories. I haven't forgotten the way he made me feel. My nerve endings haven't forgotten, either: The appearance of his name on my cell phone makes them brush against each other longingly in sea-coral slow-motion waves.

I hit the answer button before the call can go to voicemail. My stomach tangos with my small intestine as I bring the phone to my ear. “Hi, Charlie.”

“Hey there. Nice to hear your voice.”

Even though I'm sitting, the warmth in his tone makes my knees wobble. “Yours, too. I got your e-mail—sorry I haven't had a chance to write back yet. How are things? Still . . . messy?”

He hesitates, and at first I'm not sure he heard me. “Yeah,” he says at last. “Understatement of the century.” The warmth is still there, but it sounds diluted.

“Oh. I'm sorry.” He doesn't offer any clarification. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I do—but I don't. I mean, I called because I didn't want you to think my leaving had anything to do with you. When you didn't answer my e-mail . . .” Another pause, and an espresso machine screams in the background.

“Making coffee?” I ask.

“I'm at work.”

“You rebel, you!” I dispel an image of Sal waggling a long finger and saying, “No personal calls during work time!”

“Yeah, well, it's a slow day. I was making notes for a new project, and I literally couldn't wait any longer to know: Did you read my screenplay?”

“Heck yeah, I did.”

“Yeah?” Now his voice is full of vulnerable joy, like a kid who's been given an unexpected treat.

The urge to hold him is so strong I feel like I might explode. I wrap my arms around myself instead, tucking the phone between my cheek and shoulder and gazing out at the gathering puddles. “Of course I read it! Charlie, it's brilliant.”

To my surprise, he doesn't respond.

“Charlie? Do you have a customer?” I ask, eyes closed. Has he disappeared again? “Wish you could make me something. I'm stranded at Starbucks, too. Killing time.”

“Sorry about that,” he says, sounding a bit strange. “So what's going on? Why are you killing time?”

“Well, I quit the airport last week, my car just died, and I almost got flattened by a Hummer. Now I'm stranded at Starbucks. It's all very dramatic, really. Hopefully your day's going better than mine.”

He sighs. “I'm not sure about that.”

I raise my eyebrows, waiting for him to explain the reason for his sudden disappearance. But the banter between us has reached an easy equilibrium, and I don't dare disturb it. Not yet. It's good enough for now to have his voice in my ear. “Well, let's see. Is your store . . .” I survey the shop, which is nearly empty. “Deserted?”

“Yup.”

“Rainy?”

“Yup.”

“An old woman with an umbrella staring at you?”

“Yup.”

“No way.” I laugh. The old woman frowns at me, and my cheeks grow hot.
Sorry
,
I mouth at her. She looks away, clutching her purse closer to her chest.

“No, seriously.” He lowers his voice. “There's an old woman in here right now who ordered two extra espresso shots in her coffee. I'm worried she might have a tachycardia episode.”

“The excitement of baristary is unbearable, isn't it?”

I can almost hear him smile. He says, “You bet. But hey, lay it on me. Your feedback.” The tenor of his voice has notes of cautious intimacy, notes of hopeful curiosity.

I take a sip of coffee. “It's brilliant. The whole concept is brilliant. An elevator romance. Dare I say that it really—
lifted
me up?”

“Jeez. But please, continue praising my work. In a corny manner, if you must.”

“You'd think having such a limited setting wouldn't work, but it does. I have to say.” I bite my lip, deciding how forward to be. “My favorite part was when they finally kissed. I mean, wow.”

“You're making me blush.”

“Well, you know what they say.”

“No, what do they say?”

“Letting someone read your work is like letting them see you in your gym shorts. And you look good in your gym shorts. Really good.” Now I'm blushing.

“Whatever.” He tries to sound nonchalant, but I sense his excitement.

“I'm being honest. The way you painted Elena's feelings felt real to me—how she feels insecure even though she's in a position of power, how conflicted she is over the relationship with John. It's so unique for a man to be able to write women characters like that.”

“Thanks. I have to say, after I sent that, I couldn't focus on anything. I kept picturing you reading it and—I didn't know what you'd think. I really can't thank you enough for being my beta reader. And for looking at my skinny-ass chicken legs while I stood before you in my gym shorts. Speaking of which, your gym shorts are—I mean, I read your stories.”

“And?”

“They were weird. They were wonderful. Reading them helped me get through the past few weeks.” I'm about to ask a gently probing question when he continues, “I think Melting Girl could be a mascot for our generation. But tell me, would you consider making your pen name Mary Alberton?”

“I wish you were here,” I say, impetuous, grasping my cup a little too tightly.

“Me, too. I'd rather be stranded there with you than stuck behind this counter. I'm working a double, which means I'm here till closing. My coworker Nick's out back smoking pot, so he isn't going to be much help. And our umbrella-clad friend may very well be here till closing. She's already been here three hours, and she looks like she'll be pulling an all-nighter with her book,
Nearly Impossible Sudoku
.”

“Good luck.”

“Hey, before we get too off-topic, have you filled up your notebook yet?”

“Oh.” I fidget with my now-empty cup. “Almost.” Before I can stop myself, it all spills out about the
City Paper
article and accompanying job opportunity. Even though I'm worried that just by talking about it, I'll jinx it.

“You have to do it—you have to submit an article,” he says. “I can guarantee you'll be the only recent grad who's a hired bridesmaid. And now, having read your writing, I know you're going to blow them away with hurricane-force winds of awesomeness. Oh, man. Send it to me when you're done, yeah? I can't wait to see what you come up with. You'd be perfect for the
City Paper.
”

My heart races. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“I'm stuffing the ballot box.” He pauses. “I'm glad they seem to get how tough it is right now. I keep thinking about all that knowledge we accumulate in college and how quickly it dissipates after graduation, working these mindless jobs.”

“Me, too. A lot, actually.”

“I dunno, you ever think about doing some sort of clever and hilarious piece that points out the alarming and sudden juxtaposition between all the academic mumbo-jumbo and the real world? One day you're using words like—well, like ‘juxtaposition,' and the next you're learning a whole new vocabulary for whatever inane field you've chosen. My new vocab palette includes macchiato, ristretto, crema.”

I laugh and give him the executive summary of my bridal gown adventure. “You ever heard of organza?”

“Nope. But that's exactly what I mean. Hey, I stole your idea. I started learning a new word a day.”

“Don't leave me in suspense! What's it today?”

“Drumroll, please! Bumfuzzle.”

“That's not a real word.”

“Is too! To perplex or fluster.”

A blast of static comes through Charlie's end of the line. I frown. “What's going on over there?”

“Sorry, just flipped the radio station. Nick left on some weird ambient stoner shit. The last song that came on consisted of five minutes of bullfrog croaking, with a few piano notes in the background.”

As soon as he switches to a new station, I hear Scott's voice singing, loud and unmistakable. “Sorry,” Charlie says, fumbling to change stations again.

“Wait.” I smile. “That's the one Gaussian Pyramids song I can stand.”

“What? Really? This one?”

“Yeah, turn it up.”

“You're shitting me. Tell me you're shitting me.”

He pauses, then complies. Much as I've tried to hate all of Scott's songs, this one just cracks me up. Scott went through a phase where he tried to make indie-disco fusion happen. His signature song from this era, entitled “B-Side Boogie,” is the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard, but I can't hate it. It's catchy as hell. And one of Lin's finest works of art was inspired by this very song. It's a meme that superimposes Scott's face over John Travolta's in a classic still frame from
Saturday Night Fever.
The frame where John Travolta has his hip jutted out to the side; one defiant finger points at the sky, waiting to conduct a strike of disco lightning.
Lin transformed Scott's signature boat shoes into platform boat shoes. Whenever I look at that meme, I'm pretty sure our breakup was worth it.

Charlie and I listen as the song builds toward its kitschy chorus.

Picturing the meme, a few song lyrics escape from my lips before I realize what I'm doing. “I'm a dance floor, baby! Duh duh duh dance on me!”

On Charlie's end of the line, I hear a cough that might be a laugh in disguise.

“You know you want to sing with me. My favorite part's coming up,” I say.

“No way.” He laughs. “I don't want to distract my lone customer from her Sudoku solving. I might bumfuzzle her.”

“Duh duh duh dance on me!” I sing in reply. Charlie doesn't take the bait. “Hey! Don't leave me hanging. The disco beat is calling. Surrender to its power.”

The song is headed toward the fast-as-disco-lightning bridge section. There's a rustle as Charlie turns up the volume. “I can't believe you're making me do this.”

“Girl, put on your dancing shoes,” I sing.

“Before I get the disco blues!” Charlie finally jumps in, half-laughing, half-singing.

“Damn you really got the moves—”

“And I am gonna need you to—”

“Duh duh duh dance!” we sing together. “Duh duh duh
damn, girl
! Duh duh duh dance! Duh duh duh dance on meeeee!”

The old woman is staring at me, clutching her bag and scooting closer to the door, the tip of her umbrella pointed at me like a gun.

The song gets louder, segueing into an instrumental section. I bolt out of my seat, setting aside my coffee cup to free my hands for some disco moves.

“I'm Tony Manero-ing the crap out of this dance solo,” I shout into the phone so Charlie can hear me over the music.

“Backing you up on the funk bass,” he shouts back.

As the song wraps up, Charlie turns the volume down, and I fall back on the chair, laughing. “Oh my God. I can't believe they're playing that on the radio. The last time I heard that song was sophomore year at a dive bar. I never thought I'd hear it sober.”

“I think the dance floor metaphor is apt. Scott seems pretty effing two dimensional as far as I can tell.” I describe Lin's
Saturday Night Fever
meme. “You better e-mail that to me,” Charlie says.