Bras & Broomsticks (32 page)

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.

If only puffy eyes were my one facial issue. The pimple I feel expanding on my nose is much, much worse than any under-eye circles. Circles can be concealed with makeup. A second nose cannot be masked. I fly (well, not fly exactly; I’m not the one with powers) out of bed to the mirror. My nose is one big red zit. Santa’s Gift has returned! Too bad none of the numbers tonight is set in the North Pole. I can’t believe that today, of all days, my nose is the color of a fire hydrant. The one day I’m going to be onstage in front of the entire school, in front of a thousand people. What am I going to do? I can’t have this pimple on my face during the fashion show! No one will be able to pay attention to the routines—they’ll be too distracted by my huge pimple. No, I take that back. No one will be able to see the routines because my pimple will block their view.

Eureka! An idea!

I knock twice on Miri’s door and then open it and tiptoe to her bed. Her mouth is open and her hair is fanned out over her pillow and she looks really young and sweet. I almost can’t bring myself to disturb her. Almost.

I tap her on the shoulder. Repeatedly.

She opens her right eye. “What?”

“Look,” I say, full of desperation.

She opens the other eye and grimaces. “How could you wake me with that horrific thing?”

“Don’t joke. I need you to make the clear-skin spell.”

She flips onto her stomach. “I don’t want to do any more magic.”

“I know you said that yesterday, but please? Puhlease?” Don’t tell me she’s going to draw the line now. With this red lightbulb on my nose.